Poem C

Totem

Behind the chain-link fence

the mobile homes 

shudder under the battering wind,

abandoned hulks

stranded in the dead time

and the day is weary,

dingy in the low light,

colour gone – 

even the road goes nowhere, trailing away

through barren dunes

where the wind stalks the headland.

 

On the gatepost

a totem sits still as stone,

hunched,

head bent,

of no consequence

in the scattering rain

when a sudden movement breaks his contemplation,

then the pose is fractured,

head twisting

in a neat swivel, half circle,

the gaze malignant and full-on.

Distracted, he shifts

and with short skips flits

to the next post as if to show a playful side,

post to post,

tracking the field’s boundary.

But it’s short-lived. Scything the air on arching wings    

he maps out his territory,

like a vengeful angel quartering the ground.