Wood lice.

Tiny crustaceans,
Curled up in damp rotting wood,
No disquise wood lice.

In the dead of night,
Hiding under moonlit stones,
Life scuttles on.

A shield-bearers guise,
They are what they are,
Silent survivors.

Steve Halstead

Dragonflies Threaded Needles.

Splendid cities pierced with night
Dampened snowflakes quench the fires
Love burns to stitch minds
Like dragonflies threading needles
From star to star

Some nest from suburb to rugged
Escaping into the shivering willows.
Its coolness runs from cheek to cheek
The beads of dew glisten like tears.

Slumbering alder filters the moon.
From violent forest floors
Where the dead are sleeping
And we melted into one
In the shadowy glade
Embroidered with black moss
She speaks of the great trees will
The trail of tears the river of the snail

The breeze lets the cloud set sail.
Spinning horrible eyes of green
Bathed in the dawn and ancient fauna
And the scented canopy of twisted leaf

Steve Halstead.

The gravedigger & the corpse

Oh please, I don’t want this job
Picking ground to bury the dead
Don’t let his overcoat fall down
The guy in the box owns this ground

Oh, no please don’t lower me down
You can’t hear I’m talking to the crowd
It’s my turn. I’m not ready to go
Where I’m heading, it never snows

Hey, this man deserved to be late
To His last piece of real estate
Four feet apart from head to head
A prime plot near the water’s edge

Help me, oh I wish I’d been burnt
Sharing a pot on my return
Please, please, point me to the sea
Ashes in the air lost on a breeze

Hello, yes, I’m sorry for your loss
That guy digging thinks he’s the boss
It’s been too long we must meet again
Your dad left some things unexplained

Oh yes, it’s been too long; please explain
If it’s money you want, I need your name
You do know dad couldn’t afford to die
He lived his life; he lived the lie

That guy hustling should be in the hole
I’d dig for him a man with no Soul
Let the man rest leave him in peace
The family deserve time to grieve

By Steve Halstead.

SIBO’S BROTHER.

Sibo’s brother never went to school. Sibo resented him, and possibly hated him a little too. Sibo’s mum and dad seemed to accept the fact that that their older boy was difficult. They took all the temper tantrums with amazingly good grace, from their tall, bedroom bound, supercilious, recluse of a son, and shut all others out, including Sibo.
Sibo’s brother was far too posh and articulate to have any dealings with us, regarding us as lower orders of humanity. On the odd occasion he left his bedroom, we would gibber at him, and he would turn his nose skyward and say, “Out of my way, scum.”
It went on all summer, him looking down on us from his lofty room. There was always commotion in front of their house, and yet his parents pandered to his every whim; wringing their hands with a drawn expression; cooing from the lawn, as shaking waves of Wagner pulverised their neighbours peace to nerve-jangling powder.
Sibo’s brother treated us all with equal disdain. Most parents would not, could not, stand the embarrassment of having a son who showed such disregard for everyone within earshot, but they had the arrogance to dismiss the rights of others. They were a cut above because they once ran an hotel. That made them management class.
Sibo took an awful lot of stick from all sides. How could a physically small boy with eczema and a face like Bluebottle out of the Telegoons, expect to be accepted by his peers, when his barmy brother lorded it over us, and his parents placed themselves in a higher social echelon to ours? He took it all, just to belong, but he didn’t cut it with his parents, and didn’t fare much better with his peers.
One day, a huge aerial appeared on the chimney above Sibo’s brother’s room, and for a while, he became an unqualified Radio Ham. Not only did he insult people over the airwaves, very illegally, but he jammed just about every communication signal for about half a mile in all directions.
We had a field day watching a fleet of yellow GPO vans, circling like vultures, triangulating in on Sibo’s house to trap a most unlikely revolutionary. They were granted access eventually, and went away with Sibo’s brother’s radio.
A court summons was issued some days later, but a fine was paid, and it never went to court. The incident was almost forgotten, then some weeks later the oddest thing happened.
It was a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon. One of those lazy days when time stands still. Everywhere was siesta quiet but for the buzzing of bees and the sound of the Mike Sammes Singers drifting through the opening light of a distant kitchen window, mingling with the scent of onion gravy.
It was Evo who told me.
“Sibo’s brother’s dead.”
He took his dad’s car, one of the very few private vehicles in our streets, got it up to full tilt on the Preston By-pass, soon to become the M6 motorway, and smashed it into a concrete bridge, head on.
The coroner called it an accident, but a later inquest revealed the probable truth. He had a brain tumour. This explained a lot of things and made us feel a little guilty for despising him. I think we each carry a little of that guilt today.

It helped form us.

Peace V2.

By the grave, I saw the peacemaker

But he did not bring me peace.

If looks alone could kill… …

Peace laughed, for he was drunk.

In a kingdom full of unrest,

I heard a pushing, silent pacing.

And I marvelled as to what degree

Our souls endure the pain,

For on that day my soul grew cold.

Then once upon a midnight war,

Peace chuckled at the restless dead.

And I marvelled at the luckless soldiers

When I thought of peace.

When I sat engaged, reposing,

I heard a pacifist, a soldier angered.

Peace – tormentor of my dreams.

My passion is the quiet process.

By Steve Halstead.

Peace.

By the grave I saw the peacemaker

When I thought of peace

Looks alone could kill 

Peace laughed, for he was drunk 

In a kingdom full of unrest

I heard a pushing, silent pacing

Much I marvelled, to what degree?

For on that day my soul grew lonely

Once upon a midnight war

Peace chuckled at the dead

Much I marvelled at the soldiers 

When I thought of peace

Then I sat engaged and reposing

I heard a pacifist, a soldier angered 

Peace – tormentor of my dreams

My passion is the quiet process

By Steve Halstead.