COME THE COMET
by Jeremy Gadd  

COME THE COMET 

Ten millennia ago, before philosophies like 'existentialism'
and definitions, such as 'prehistoric' and 'neolithic',
people built Gobekli Tepe's  temple and, on its so-called 'vulture' column, symbolically predicted the return of a cosmic storm. 

Come the comet, 
the minutiae of modern
life will be meaningless.
Come the comet,  
who will care what label they wear; 
about the demise of the polar bear. 
Come the comet,
as we wait for the world to shatter, 
identity will cease to matter; 
ditto whether life is tough or  
presented on a silver platter.
Come the comet,  
 international disputes and  
being of high repute will  
become inconsequential.
Come the comet 
and its accompanying
global cataclysm, 
race-relations will take
back-seat as home and
high-rise melt in the heat.
Come the comet,
will Earth's axis tilt?
Will the magnetic poles reverse,
triggering tectonic shift or, worse,
allow in harmful solar radiation?
Come the comet,  
incinerated forests and
other ubiquitous natural
mass destruction will render
nuclear weapons superfluous.
Come the comet,
those concerned with climate
change and environmental
preservation will seem deranged.
Come the comet,  
will anyone care about religion? 
Will Allah save the world from oblivion?  
Will Paradise have enough virgins 
for the millions of Moslem martyrs? 
Come the comet,  
Will the Christian dead arise and
ghoulishly queue for judgement
where St. Michael waits? 
And, after the comet, 
if the calamity abates 
and some survive and,
as at Gobekli Tepe,
seek to build a new society, 
to reinvent their world and
attempt to give sense 
to a violent and mostly
incomprehensible universe,  
pray they ameliorate the
human propensity to divide
and differentiate ... 

(c) Jeremy Gadd 2018 

THE BOY WHO KILLED AN OWL

As if dealt dark cards or the Joker
when playing Old Maid, what began
as a game got out of hand and
brought shame that scarred
him for life. It began after-school
when, looking for fun, some bare
kneed, primary aged boys, threaded,
single file, through the trees,
pretending to be mighty hunters.
They carried sticks for spears and,
being young, few fears and even less 
respect for the fauna around them.

They came across a big bird,
motionless, hunched on a low bough
but the boys did not know they'd met
an owl. The bird sensed the boys and
tilted its large head towards them.
Blinking slowly, it watched their
approach with saucer-like eyes
before hooting to warn of its presence.

But little boys can be wicked and,
thinking to scare and goad it to fly,
they egged each other on until,
the boy bringing up the rear, hurled
his stick - the first stone - and
by mischance, misfortune or destiny,
it forcefully struck and disembowelled
the unfortunate, inoffensive owl!
The bird fell, fluttering, to the ground.

Comprehending he had killed;
that he had taken life, the boy
could barely breath beneath
the weight of his responsibility.
The shock chilled him and, horrified
by the dead bird before him, he
wished the deed undone – too late.
The boys buried the bird and, uneasy, 
swore to tell no-one before, furtively,
creeping from the tainted place ...
At home, the now troubled boy
looked up the bird's characteristic
features in his parents' book of birds
and learned it was an owl and,
from further reading, that owls
- like all wild-life - are special.

He learnt the owl is a symbol of wisdom;
that the ancient Athenians chose
the image of an owl to adorn their 
currency and represent their god,
Athena, guardian of the Acropolis:
that, as owls are nocturnal, they
are often associated with mysticism,
the dark and the dead; the
supernatural spirits of the night;
that some believe a hooting owl
means someone is going to die.
And the boy who killed the owl
began to die of shame. There
was no excuse for a deed so foul.
From that time, he changed
from being gregarious and wild
to a more introspective child.
The boy remained in his room,
avoiding the friends who had
been with him and, to his parents'
consternation, became withdrawn.
At senior school, his interest
in studying markedly waned.
Somehow he scraped a pass.

The years passed too, and the boy
who killed an owl became a man
but, no use, the remorse remained
and the dead bird's demise continued
to haunt him. He left home and 
held several unsatisfactory jobs.
Once, on the threshold of what
might have become a career, 
the owl loomed in his memory
and he lost confidence in his 
capabilities and withdrew his application.
He fell in love and was on the
verge of asking to marry but,
at the moment he was about to
propose, the owl materialized –
a grisly apparition - over her shoulder
and feelings of unworthiness
became overwhelming and he
walked away from the relationship.
The older he got, the more he saw
himself as the boy who killed the owl,
until, eventually, he was unemployable.
Destitute, he became a recluse,
begging money for beer and sleeping
in fear on the street and in public parks.

Vagabonds become used to abuse,
being treated disdainfully, picked on
for fights and, in his psychologically
cowed plight, his hair turned white.
He was ready to throw in the towel
when, one day, he found a lame lark,
singing joyfully despite its injury.
He tried to ignore it but it insistently
sang until he was captivated by  
the life-force it emanated.
He gently made a splint for the
bird’s broken bone and fed it
until well enough to fly home and
something stirred in his empty heart.

He looked for work and found it
as a part-time repairman and,
with his hard-earned wages, 
re-built a caravan to live in – and,
for the remainder of his allotted span,
cared for hurt and hungry birds.
People brought him sick pets
and, even vets, left recuperating birds
in his healing care until, although
threadbare, he became a valued
contributor to his community. But,
best of all, he found the boy inside 
him, the boy who killed the owl
had gone and, despite continuing,
though subdued, residual guilt –
still present like a fading stain –
he felt he had atoned and could
finally live with himself again.

(c) Jeremy Gadd 2018.

A STATE FUNERAL REMEMBERED

A recent spate of biographical  
movies reminded me of a state funeral
watched, in flickering black and white, 
and relayed by, then, technologically 
innovative satellite, from frozen London, 
beset with wintery gales, 
to hot and dusty rural New South Wales 
and, although young, I was well aware - 
as when seeing Turner's depiction
of ‘The Fighting Temeraire’ - that
I was viewing the end of an era: 
Britain was burying Winston Churchill.

But it isn’t the pageantry I recall: 
the artillery salute reverberating 
in the still, frigid air or the slow, 
measured tread of the sailors,
leaning and swaying on the ropes
in unison as they hauled the gun-carriage
up Ludgate Hill's slope to St Pauls,
packed with sombre dignitaries; 
or Queen Elizabeth breaking convention 
to receive the commoner’s flag draped coffin; 
or Menzies’ eulogy from the crypt,
lauding how Churchill lit ‘lamps of hope’;
or Handel’s Death March; 
the bugler's call to reveille; 
the RAF flying-past in his honour or 
the cranes lowered along the Thames. 

I remember most the coffin's journey,  
by train, to Bladon's country cemetery, 
and the ordinary citizens who lined the route,
waiting to pay homage: the be-meddled men
who stood at attention in ill-fitting uniforms;
the man wearing a dented metal helmet
saluting from a roof; passers-by
who simply stopped and removed
hats or bowed their heads in respect;
the dignified elderly woman, wrapped
in coat and scarf against the cold,
holding aloft a sign which read: 
‘Thank you and goodbye’. 

© Jeremy Gadd 2019     

About the Author:

Jeremy Gadd: Periodicals that have recently accepted his work include Months To Years (USA) 2018, FreeXpresSion (Australia) 2018,  Pendle War Poetry Competition Anthology (UK) 2018, The Beautiful Space – A Journal of Mind, Art and Poetry (UK) 2018, The Curlew (UK) 2019.