She scratches at the wall

She scratches at the wall
Like grief's tethered ghost
Like love without air
I wish an opening but lost
Some exit from despair
Yet with care cannot sing her awakening.

Force cannot make her being
Grow. For swords will but cut flesh
Song only move mind with eyes seeing
Ears hearing, but she is not a guest.

She is but a dead ghost scratching
At the walls,tethered in sorrow.

Dead drive Haiku

Two dead hard drives sit
One is windows, one linux
One has a Bitcoin

The last Apple in Bramley is no more

 I

At dusk I heard the Owl
In the Oak forest
Spring Garlic and Acorns
Most will not grow
Solely for the grass is mown.
I will dig them like truffles
Carry them home. Again
Took flowering Plum stems
A deep inhalation like steam
Planted where the canal overflows to a stream
That fresh negative charge.
Ionic
In revivifying perturbations I recall
I once sat with a dispossessed Princess
Who would not eat Plum sauce pancakes
But would stop to breathe waterfalls.

II.

I have staked plum staves in the park
This reverse Perestroika
Big Society 2.0 and for what
The earth is sparse and falls like dust
I haves staked plum staves in slopes
So the banks don't collapse
Staked Apples staves amid the Oaks
Of Bramley Fall assuming at an age pensionable
No one will recall these strange routines
At dawn, at dusk, melatonin, adrenalin
The catabolisation of achetylcholine.
I have a dream
That one day the Apple and the Oak
Will entwine their roots in a spirit
Of synchoronous symbiosis and shared possibility
Let flourishing ring
At least in one corner of this native field.

III.

Will the plum taken from our garden
Rejoice in this new rhizosphere
Rediscovering its split self
That flourishes still where stood
The old Farmhouse of Bramley Hill
Where stands the steel strutts
Of a threadbare post war peace
Where stands the timber and poly-isocyanate
As temple to a fragile belief
That endo-symbiotic eukaryotes may
Enable the NOD factor and grass, lichens,
These plums staves that are not yet trees
Shall slowly process simple acts of complex God
What is it to have dreams like these, today?

IV.

Curioser and Corvosier
Let freedom ring
From the deforested slopes of the Himalayas
To the rich soil of Bramley Fall
Let freedom ring
Across this new geometry of a native field
That is forever rambling.

V.

I heard the Owl
All's well that ends well
Or Orwell, oh well
This Owl belongs to Bramley Fall
And if attended or unattended
But not in between
The apples will grow
In the wood by the stream.

VI.

If
    This
        {The last apple
    The last Bramley Apple in Bramley
    An apple of discord
    An apple of knowledge
    A fig}
        = true
    Then
        Error

If
    This    
    {Monocultural cloning
     Reseeding    
     Mitosis produced twinned electrons
     Bioshpere crisis}
        = true
     Then
        Lucky I planted those trees.

VII.

There are apple staves staked in dank pots
In December, those darkest of days
I heard,this will not be forgot
When in the grip of chill returned dismayed
My thought was all the staves would rot
Yet dank pots with no gaps like marsh
Where nourishing. This spring sprung
Bud from seemed dead wood, the green spear
The mixed earth, sand, clay rock,soil
Bramley, Fibonacci, Lamarck, smile.

An old question, unanswered

This evening
Wax light, dove white danced softening over the field
Air a layered strata of the calls of shy flowers
Chi vibrating between palm and the back of my hand
A sinusodial flicker struck black across the dusk.

What is it now like for Whales?
What for the frenetic dusk loving morse of motion
That flits the grass past silhouettes of leaf
Could we translate its state in nets of bits electric
Boltzman, Bernouli, Monte Carlo?

In spring I threw bird seed upon the piled terrace of clay.
The apples are falling from the tree again today
An early windfall pitted brown with grubs
The kitchen sink lies upturned upon the ground
What is it now like to hunt in sound?

A parasite will make mice like cats
Perhaps now we will make the habitat for birds and beans
As discipiles of these strange ways as means
Will they thank us for that?

Have we understood the pathways
The intermediary of inter-species empathy
Can be constructed upon our theories
The instruments unmeasurable but in their own terms
Can this language even know Chi or why it rises in viscosity?

Are we only to speculate.
The post enlightenment uses of delusion
Latter day latency of thought and memory
What were the last words of that gnat
If we could translate its mind
Could we know each other better, could we know bats?

The dark market

The market has no lights
Lined stalls darkle
Lamp black against charcoal
Blind patrons bump and stumble
Braille reading whares and hands.
This is good business
A nudge lifts a wallet from a pocket
A stolen fraud flogged to a judgeless mouth
Some item lifted, broken, returned.
Blink, the black, black moonless gallery
The footfalls, low ceilings, the ringing alarms.
What will sense deprived customers
Leave carrying in their pockets and garms?
What will be left on the stalls?
The electrician came
He too felt the conflict of hands upon wires
The grasping and wrestle in the dark
Insensate senses without pedagogi
And did the globe light?
The pins and spots, tricolor, slashes and dots
Nerve endings euthanised
Lest they describe what the hands are holding
The market is still dark
Patrons leave petrified
Feeling their pockets
Like Schodinger's trap.