18 fps


Slow them down, the comical horses.

Retard their jerky progress

down the Mall. Their riders,

shakos nodding, in doomed plumage,

are cantering towards

their own annihilation

as jauntily as Buster Keaton

accosting an awkward heiress.

It suits us, perhaps, to let them go

their way uncorrected.

It serves to distance them

from us. We watch,

almost unmoved,

as they jog towards Armageddon.

A Country House Murder


The urbane Inspector seals the area.

Under questioning, secrets are revealed.

Alibis crumble under pressure.

Strange tyre tracks are found in a nearby field.

In the servants' quarters letters are discovered.

Nothing's quite what it appeared to be.

A trapdoor comes to light, a hidden cupboard.

The Inspector loses his urbanity,

but solves the case. Order is restored,

like someone righting deck chairs on a lawn

after a summer shower. The sullen cloud

retreats, abashed, before the complacent sun.

What time is it? I make it ten to three.

While some play tennis, others bring out tea.

A Young Giraffe


When he talks of boyish things,

as he does, sometimes we look

up, not recognising that voice,

as though somebody else had

come in when we weren't looking.

So much restless energy,

such spring-heeled joie de vivre

spilling over: happiness

expressed in terms of movement –

sometimes he’s still seen skipping.

His legs are getting longer;

his feet outpace his shoes;

he gangles down the street like a

young giraffe, or someone

adjusting to earth's gravity.

David Callin lives on one of Britain's offshore islands but not, regrettably, for tax reasons. His poems have appeared in OrbisOther Poetry and Envoi among others, and in a number of online magazines, including Message in a BottleSnakeskin and Antiphon.

Make a Free Website with Yola.