Two Poems by Michael Grieve

This War

So when it comes and the decisions lie
around you in a form your boss requires,
in the cost of choosing not to say or see,
the choice of speaking up or subterfuge;
and when the black chapel of your chest
is open to the meekest visitors
who pray, or are the sly iconoclasts,
by whom will your only name be listed?

Parliament

‘I axe respit […] to have my choys al fre’
—Chaucer, The Parliament of Fowls

The jackdaws of Muirhead bridge
are in general assembly.
Split down the middle in a last ditch
attempt at unity, they

are eventually joined
by the jolting noise of the railway
and their croaking mass is sent
simultaneously

in every upward direction.
The edgelings seem to hold their sway,
pitching in left-right correction
to corral the body,

but each bird’s swithering notion
contributes to their murmured way,
and by such indecision
it seems they’re already

estranged from their two-sided bridge.
How on earth will they manage?

Michael Grieve was shortlisted for the 2020 Edwin Morgan Poetry Award. His poems have appeared in Magma, The Scores, Perverse, and Gutter, and his pamphlet, Luck, is published by HappenStance. www.michael-grieve.com