spruce branch

Wind froze your undercarriage,

the soft white skin of exposed belly

where armour cannot reach.

Low blow,

coming from an ally;

‘Et tu, Brute’

will be your swan song,

your dying dirge.

Seeing Eye to Eye

Your lip curls in derision,

contempt for failings twists you.

Your eye gleams,

‘arc de triomphe’;

 your tongue trails

your rows of hapless prisoners,

an offering to ego’s altar.

Your gleam blinds you

to your own appetites,

 slaves with sweat glistening,

goose-stepping over cells

bound by shackles of steel.

Remove the plank,

and you can see to remove my speck.

Perhaps then,


we can see

eye to eye.