Mostly a Lament (for Kashmir)

on August 9, 2019
 Stricken by a passing lorry
 willow wands lie prostrate, un-feathered
 (green daggers loved by W. Morris)
 whipped off their tree forever.
  
 Wading in a mountain torrent,
 avalanche of water biffing black rock
 gentling green eddies, spuming white  depths,
 the wall-eyed Kashmiri ghillie
 tore strips off bendy willow branches,
 trussing trout brown slippery cold,
 tricked to death by flies- maytime blue- 
 and sometimes little pulsing frogs
 cast in when the sport got tedious-
 with no sign of easy gains
 for the big shots with their rising bellies
 And picnic hampers from the plains.
 Willow switches cooled the fish
 cradled by temperate leaves in place
 as chianti bottles in a raffia case.
  
 That will never be again, 
 sad vale of  Kashmir, our Shangr-la.
 Ghillies, horseboys, houseboat–wallahs,
 have now found new roles, other masters.
  
 Suspended on a Cotswold ridge
 the moon hung pink, a grapefruit segment,
 succulent, moist, out in space,
 while rabbits scutted to dark coppices.
  
 In the train a German boy 
shrugged off his backpack,
wiped his forehead on his sleeve
settled into lunch dissecting grapefruit
with considered markings of an army knife
  
 Posted rosy crescents one by one
 into his boundless orifice
 made elastic with habits of rolls, orange  juice, crisps
bulging from his Sainsbury bag.
  
 So one image looped to another and  another
 threading back into the past,
 sometimes unbearably sad,
 sometimes funny and banal.
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 Stricken by a passing lorry
 Willow wands lie prostrate, unfeathered,
 (Green daggers loved by W. Morris)
 Whipped off their tree forever.
  
 Wading in a mountain torrent,
 Avalanche of water biffing black rock
 Gentling green eddies, spuming white depths,
 A wall-eyed Kashmiri ghillie
 Tore strips off bendy willow branches,
 Trussing trout, brown slippery cold,
 Tricked by flies, maytime blue- 
 And sometimes little pulsing frogs
 Cast in when the sport got tedious-
 With no sign of easy gains
 For the big shots with their rising bellies
 And picnic hampers from the plains.
 Willow switches cooled the fish
 Cradled by temperate leaves in place
 As chianti bottles in a raffia case.
  
 That will never be again, 
 Sad vale of  Kashmir, our Shangr-la.
 Ghillies, horseboys, houseboat–wallahs,
 Have now found other roles, other masters.
  
 Suspended on a Cotswold ridge
 The moon hung pink, a grapefruit segment,
 Succulent, moist, out in space,
 While rabbits scutted to dark coppices.
  
 In the train a German boy shrugged off his backpack,
 Wiped his forehead on his sleeve,
 Settled into lunch, dissecting grapefruit
 With considered markings of an army knife.
  
 He posted rosy crescents one by one
 Into his boundless orifice
 Made elastic with habits of rolls, orange juice, crisps
 Bulging from his Sainsbury bag.
  
 One image looped to another and another,
 Threading back into the past,
 Sometimes unbearably sad,
 Sometimes funny or banal.