Prospero's Poetry – Verses by Richard Benger

Our Sun, Our Moon

A glittering sun looks west in morning sky, a melancholy moon returns his haughty gaze.

Like a soft drum roll or a bass recorder, the rising moan of a night time wind

At nightfall, trees are nebulous shapes against a darkening sky: fields, hedges and their dwellers at rest, all asleep.

An oldish lady, grey and, bent, walks her bent and grey old dog,

When our fellow human beings start to ail, and fail, and fall,

It's my job today to peel potatoes, the least liked of all unpopular chores,

A moment of sight, of sound, of thought, a fleeting glance reveals the world.

The kingdom of the living and the dead, perhaps is somewhere just within our head;

A candle lit for him, a candle lit for her, in quiet amidst twelve shining tongues of light.

Horse-drawn over country they arrived, man with the nation's music in his head,

'Only two movements?' One of music history's biggest jokes.

Push the heavy door, enter into warmth, pass amongst the waiting folk seated in their pews,