You have taught
helicopters that fall from never ending trees,
storks standing on one leg in the estuary
and 'King Arthur lived on that hill with his knights'.
Two tic-tacs plus three tic-tacs equals five.
Sums done.
You have shown
in our nights nothing to fear,
but thunder and lightning
repaired by milk, murmuring milly-molly-mandy.
Painting is a second language,
seeing the colour of the birds is our second sight.
Now almost fabled,
guru teachings.



Now you teach the black coal our of forefathers,
disintegrating to dust with Arthur Scargill.
No matter the adding up
the world has grown small
like your stories, signing sorrowfulness.
Now you show
yourself spinning as helicopter leaves to the ground;
burying yourself with King Arthur under myth.
The tide of your estuary erratic,
no view but the sinking sands.
Sight lost.



Fabled guru,
teacher
just answer your phone.


Charity Hamilton