Goat-Song Don't go into the wood at night For there are foxes there. Don't go into the wood by day For there are adders there. Don't go into the wood at dawn For then the air is rare. I did go into the wood at dusk And saw the spirits there. Between the path and the eldertrees Between sun and the evening breeze Between the darkness and the day I sensed souls of goats who'd passed away. Far from the house and the busy road Where the eye of man cannot see They laid the bones of dog and goat And there was no-one to grieve but me. The dogs had many fancy names A life and a pedigree But the goats just went to pasture new Wherever that may be. How long had they lain there in the wood When their earthly life was gone And the turf put back fresh again To be baked by the summer sun. Nobody knows that the goats are there But grand-dad told me so And it wasn't as if we humans care Whether their spirits come and go. These beasts were part of our household once - Part of our family - Now their skin and their bones are used As food for the elder tree. And the dogs and the hares and the rabbits piss * On the grass that forms their bed: Will creation be so insensitive When the rest of us are dead? I shall come out of the wood tonight For we have food for tea. I'll leave the goats to their evening-watch For we have meat for tea. I'll leave the goats to God's kind care For we have lamb for tea. When I return in a year or so To walk through this wood and grass Will I give a thought for the goats? Oh no, I shall ignore them as I pass. For the goats are dead Dead, dead and dead And we have lamb for tea. Copyright Clayton Goodwin                        Called to rest?    Where will you lay me when I am dead? Above my head what will be read? "Departed Life" or "Fell Asleep" "Gentle Christ thy soul shall keep" Yet I shall refuse to go If you do describe itso. "Died" is theonly word I need. Where will you lay my last remains? Cremation's out - I want no flames No ashen Urn - Though it be a viking burn - For that I have no passion. Let my elements My bones and flesh Return to earth of their own volition Not sudden, rash In final, funeral conflagration. Will you lastly lay me down In the little Kentish town Where for me it all began And where Grandad, Dad and Gran With Uncles Billy, Bert and Fred Have already gone ahead And in the graveyard Head to head - For this is what their widows said - Engage in daily mirth Or talk of topics They enjoyed on earth - With mouthless skulls And decayed brain And skin that's tanned by wind To withstand rain. Will you finally bury me In the local cemetery Seen beyond the tall oak-tree From my window now? Among those long-abandoned graves I have walked on summer days And read the written words of praise. Or in the winter long ago Took our children through the snow To evening-classes Brownies, Cubs And gym. It's here that on your shopping-trips You'll call by me And offer tips Of how to pass The interlude Of cold and chilling solitude. But will you stay? Or, like our children, go away To Camden, Hampstead... further still ... And then no longer have free-will To spend eternity with me If you should wed again. Better it is to see me lie In that place where I shall die In bedroom, bath Or on the kitchen's lino-floor That's all I want. And one thing more; If I should go While listening to a favourite show Or watching cricket played abroad (In which the batsmen hardly scored And with boredom Drove us all To apathy). Then you can say That I have truly passed away And I would let you keep The sentence that I fell asleep. There you would let me, resting, stay And softly go upon your way. c. Clayton Goodwin                       Everything that lives ? The great and good, the mean and lowly "Everything that lives is holy";. In essence we must all agree But  - even though it is the bug, or flea The earwig, pond-life, frog or toad And in the earth the nemotode? The wasp, the centipede, the worm? Helpless newt stuck in mud that's firm? There is, you may have heard, A beetle that is born in turd. "Everything that lives is holy" A concept that is rather silly. God made mankind in his own image Two legs, two arms, a pleasant visage A brain to think, a soul to feel That's why He gave to us free will. Therefore it is somewhat funny To give these attributes to bunny Pussy, house-hold dog that barks The finches, sparrows and the larks And don't you feel a stupid ass To dole out brotherhood en masse To everything which since our birth Has crawled and crept upon this earth. "Let everycreature rise and bring Peculiar honours to our King" Peculiar is in life and deed - These are creatures who have no need For conscience, morals, standards, brain And do nothing much - except chew grain, Or gnaw on wood, and drink the dew Mixing it to some loathsome brew With sewage, dirt, and for a topping Guzzle down a bird's dried dropping. Strange, then, it is to say God, too, moves in a mysterious way. "All creatures of our God and King Lift up your voice and with us sing" Do you feel a brotherly echo In the company of a gecko? All of you, I trust, agree No wildebeest is quite like me. The cayman's jaw, the hornet's sting - That is certainly a thing With which the world can do without - Like wolf-hound's tooth and wild-boar's snout. Is mankind, the weasel or the larva Most close in spirit to Our Father? When civilisation has passed away And all the world is in decay When everything has turned to dust The ruin, debris and the rust Who will have the wit to see That this speck was you, or me An antelope, a spider or a fly For everything that lives must die. Then where will art and culture thrive When there is nothing left alive? You may consider it more slowly That "everything - ? - that lives is holy" © Clayton Goodwin                     Uncle Herbert   Uncle Herbert was a sober man He dressed in black and wore a hat Never joked and rarely smiled He wasn't having anything of that.   Uncle Herbert was a worthy man Owner of a foundry farm Whom folk regarded with respect Not a man to cause alarm.   Uncle Herbert married well She was the landed gentry's niece They laboured hard and saved their pounds Lived a life of social ease.   My grand-dad was a poor man He dressed in what he could Never was in steady work His home a bungalow of wood.   Uncle Herbert and Auntie Annie came to call on us in summer And sat with Gran and Grand-dad on the lawn among the flowers. Reliving deeds and thoughts of old They talked for hours and hours.   "Do you recall that deal I made? The money earned The money spent. Bought this suit And Annie's hat With some over we could save. That's the time that you were drunk Wasting father's legacy among the sots and knaves.   You went off to fight in France At Mons and River Marne Left the best years of your life At Paschendaele and on the Somme. I stayed here and built my wealth Invested mostly in the farm.   All you had was given up To raise five daughters and a son. We didn't do that sort of thing - Then in time we had just one Our father would be proud to see Of what I've made From all he handed down to me. I have the trappings of success Have never spoiled myself Done nothing to excess. Hard but in all things fair I do not cheat, or drink or swear.   And you, my brother Harry, what can I say of you? About your language, about your style, and everything you do? Mother would have forty shocks - I'm sure she'd never dream That you would drink, smoke, curse and Even now blaspheme".   The sun began its slow descent behind the dark elm trees. Gran pulled on her cardigan against the evening  breeze. Uncle Herbert observed his watch, tut-tutted about the hour, Put on his hat, took up his stick, and said they had to leave.   Then I was coming up to eight, Walking to the garden-gate Between these two old men Their words impressed me even then A piece of rural philosophy That stays within my memory.   "Harry, brother Harry, how much I envy you". My grand-dad stopped and looked askance Herbert went on without a glance: "How much I envy you".   "But Herbert you have everything Wealth, health And years ahead. Respect and reputation. Things I have never had".   "Years of anguish. Years of sorrow. Of loneliness as well. We had no time for fun or friend And now we face a lonesome end". Grand-dad laughed: "Herbert, you have the wherewithal - Before you go to God - To live in style and luxury. You miserable old sod ! You envy me my poverty, my war-wound And this humble house This plot of garden-land".   Uncle Herbert twitched his whiskers And said in a voice that was just a whisper. "I do have money in the bank, position and social rank And everything I sought to do - But still I envy you. I've been content but never happy That's why I envy you, my brother Harry, Your memories that they cannot take away. I envy you your memories On each and every day".   Uncle Herbert was a sober man A sombre, sober man. © Clayton Goodwin                       Season's Greeting   "Good Christian men rejoice" We sang with festive voice And decked the halls with boughs of holly It was the season to be jolly.   Grandad told his yuletide yarn About his Christmas on the Marne. For him it was but yesterday - Soon his mind was far away To the trenches, the mire, the mud Where his comrades gave their blood And offered up their life To save the world from further strife.   But we had heard it year on year: It was hardly, homely Christmas cheer. So with only half a mind We gave his memory-clock a wind By asking of the gas and vermin - For ourselves we were confirming That the past's a long time dead  - But left that sentiment unsaid.   Yet he still saw the poppies bloom As if they were here in the room, Not even family was as real To sight, to sound, to touch, to feel As the fallen in the field Whose bones the Flanders foxholes yield.    The children bickered - were sent to sleep Dumped their toys down in a heap. The Christmas spirit now was such That everyone had drunk too much. When we'd had an excess of booze We settled back and tried to snooze.   But Grandad still sat bold up-right And chuntered endless into night Of bayonet-charge, and bloody slaughter, Mixed, here and there, with laughter. Compared with now it was an age Made for heroes' self-less courage.   How did the old man judge our time Of peace and mediocrity sublime?   "Although we've drunk, slept, over-ate For me this is the perfect state: The half-cooked chicken, lukewarm food, The boredom, children's sulky mood, Just normal life, a mundane sorrow - That's the golden, new tomorrow For which I fought, and by-and-by Watched my comrades bleed and die".    © Clayton Goodwin                        Doreen Ellen Baker   Doreen Ellen Baker died When she was just thirteen. Her parents grieved - but they are gone And all we know of Doreen's life Is written down in stone. Next year I shall be thirteen too And what has life for me? Will I be dead before I've grown To full maturity?   Doreen Ellen Baker died When she was still at school. She studied hard and worked till late In preparation for a life Cut short by wilful fate. If I should die and follow her What use is it now to me To study hard and do my work For a life that will not be?   Doreen Ellen Baker lies Dead for all the world to see. Her family told her not to fear That death would not come to her - The law of average was quite clear. For everyone's that called away Some thousands more will live and grow To adulthood and parentage - Death's chance is really low.   Doreen Ellen Baker died Unlucky little girl. She knew about percentages That she should have a life To study hard and she would be A mother and a wife. And what, Doreen, if I should be Another of those fated few Who do die young And are struck down like you?    Doreen Ellen Baker - You have shown me why I need not worry for this world of woe. I'll burn my books, enjoy myself And taste of fun before I go. Nothing I have learned in class From lessons, life or book Can help me in this fearful task To give to death a second look.   Doreen Ellen Baker died: Now nothing more remains Of how she lived, of what she thought Her interests, habits, mental strains The treasures which she saved or bought. Yes, I, like Doreen Ellen Baker, may Take ill and pass away And everything I've learned or seen Will vanish in a day.   Doreen Ellen Baker died Before she was fully grown. And I may die - Or I may live Like all of those I see around. What then will I have to give To others I meet in the world If I have thrown it all away In sorrow for a little girl Whom I've just met today?   copyright - Clayton Goodwin                        Jamaica Farewell   Brown Girl Let me sing Tra-la-la-la-la Of cricket Of our life and thing Tra-la-la-la-la Show me a motion Tra-la-la-la-la Show me emotion Tra-la-la-la-la.   Jamaica - Land of water and of wood Reggae raw and accent rude No soothing Cozier's vocal charm. Hostility, indiscipline Bad boys who give alarm Sent home in admonition - From many people is one nation.   Memento From a time of mento Louise Bennett, Bim & Bam Salt fish, ackee, mango, yam Obeah, Pocomania Norman Manley Marcus Garvey Sir Alexander Bustamante.   Brown girl, how you cried And knew not why you cried When you learned Collie Smith had died.   Back then in your island home Your life in exile yet to come Took the funeral as a reference Of your own lost innocence.   Jamaicans - then and now one people One nation in your grief When Kingston buried Collie Smith.   Always  heroes dying young Their talent green Life's-work hardly yet begun - Donald Sangster and Bob Marley - Promise passed Before it had the time to grow. Brown girl, do you know The man for whom you mourn?   For - truth to tell He was one of us as well: Banners flew here at half-mast On learning that his life was past. We'd charmed to Alfred Valentine With Ramadhin - "Those two pals of mine", and Headley hitting hundreds At a pace. Worrell's style and batting grace - Adopted son Of your island in the sun.   Brown girl, you are not The child that you then were When you were there at home.   "Whenever there's moonlight You'll think of then You'll remember The first night He held you tight Remember the warm kiss And his loving arms, dear Whenever there's moonlight You'll think of then".   Bananas green and avocado Vere John on the radio Bread-fruit and the doctor-birds The tunes, the moon The long unending afternoon Hearing Arlott's golden words.   Runs and jubilation Came your way at Edgbaston Comfort in tribulation Brought solace, too, at Nottingham.   "Your eyes are dreaming They're always dreaming  of ....." What could you do At your school-girl crush's wedding As you heard the choir singing: "Too late he's gone Too late he's gone".   It changed for all of you At that milestone funeral In your thousand Sharing unrestrained emotion Youth and childhood at an end Before you came to 'Eng-l-and.   Sad to say, you  were on your way Wouldn't be back home for many a day   May the words of my mouth And meditation of our hearts Be acceptable in Thy sight Every night.   Brown girl We shall sing Of new-time heroes too Walsh and Michael Holding Adams, Lawrence Rowe Hendriks and Dujon   With Lollipop, and Shantytown In winter snow And summer gloom No job   No Coloureds here     No room. One housing mass From Lewisham To Ladbroke Grove Death by leaking Valor-stove Violent scenes at Notting Hill New Cross Fire And Enoch Powell A social hell - Recent thoughts on which you dwell.   Go back into the other world When you were still a brown-skin girl Friendly days of festival Before Collie Smith's own funeral.   "No woman, no cry" ("No woman, no cry") I know why you, woman, cry You weep for years which pass away Leaving you no chance to say That what it is For which you pine Is yourself in autumn-time  .... September 1959   copyright - Clayton Goodwin       A touch of magic graced this earth   Bark on you hounds The woodyard keeps you out of bounds   It is a wondrous thing I hear The only thing to fear is fear.   Drab, dank and doubtful The dark streets of Dartford Bred no genius that I know It is no place to muse or wonder Of the world's delight and woe   Wordsworth had the lakes of England Hopkins drew on his fires of faith Blake saw heaven in a hovel And fulfillment in his grief   Behind the doors and tight-pulled curtains People keep themselves apart And from the eyes of friends and neighbours Hide the feelings of their heart   No impulse here to grip a Nelson A Drake to cross the seas abroad Naught to tax a Newton, Planck or Einstein No immortality in one's word   Those daring deeds which won an Empire Happened elsewhere, and never here Where common-place, itself, is common And novelty inspires only fear   Then a dog growled, snarling barked Behind a gate in gardens dark   Yet suppose, just suppose a moment A touch of magic graced this earth So that instead of puppies The bitch to unicorns gave birth.   Do I look or go away? My beating heart took instant fright "Keep out" the notice warned me "This bad dog will surely bite"   Why risk my health, my body The pain of everything I can be sure The assurance of a life-time To see something as quite ordinary As a common household cur.   The only thing to fear I hear you tell me Is that very fear itself.   In every chance of sixty million Whatever odds you care to say You will see nothing more exciting Than you’d see on any day   Yet, yet, I never can be certain This is not that chance in one zillion In the history of our universe When the impossible become what happened And I had willingly passed up on The one chance of my life-time In all the days since I was born To be there at the birth-time of A perfect baby unicorn   Bark on your hounds The wood-yard keeps you out of bounds   Copyright Clayton Goodwin                       Channel-Hopping     "We have no quarrel with this people". It is with sorrow that we bring you Each moment in the agony Of their country's tragedy.   Rejoice ! The guns, the bombs, the killing From our brave lads To whom we gave the shilling To blast to hell for our amusement A tyrant who is not content To leave world power To those of good intention With right to arms of our invention.   Bullets fly Children die Bombs fall Old folk crawl In death and mutilation To meet the debit of their nation. Broadcasters bluster The generals fluster To find the words to justify Why these poor souls must die.   Their containment is our entertainment.   The news at noon Is much too soon To watch the aftermath of hell. The news at eight Has come too late To listen to politicians tell What they have done - What they had to do - In the name of us ... That's me and you.   Why don't they say: "We have had our way And battered down Some foreign clown".                                                                                                   Do not wrap it in a moral About folk with whom We have no quarrel.   The tracers flash And buildings crash. Total up the score - A hundred ? More ? Players of an unknown name In this television game.        *   Sick with everything we've seen I press the switch - Another screen. Pope, archbishop, rabbi, statesmen speak of the need for harmony and peace: That isn't the platitude which I seek until warfare and the terror cease".        *   Crossing by the satellite We drop in on a boxing fight Where two strong men inflict much pain With punches to the heart and brain.        *   And yet at just a flick away We find ourselves on the wedding-day For a happy, smiling pair Who do not seem to have a care Except that it all stays fine, And pledge their troth of Love Divine.        *   Newsflash - newsflash What is next ? Newsflash on the teletext.   The water's risen Floods abound And have covered holy ground Swamping churches Shops and crannies With inconvenience to kids and grannies. Our kids Our grannies ... I must add ... That is why it so truly sad.   But Spurs have scored ! And Arsenal too !! The Queen has gone to Whipsnade Zoo To view a species that was about to die. It is enough to make you cry.   I am thus relieved to see Symbols of real tragedy  ... Our cricketers have failed to impress ...        *   Here I must once more digress And turn the knob Back to the job Performed in professional, expert fashion To stir our hearts in patriotic passion. Our airmen are all safely back: Their spokesmen praise the Union Jack. You would not believe our planes and tanks Played second fiddle to the Yanks.   And in Europe - what are the views As shown on television news ?        *   In a room that's very grubby A grunting trucker much too tubby - As seen here on German cable - Shags a Thai girl on the table.        *   And in Rome The civilised nations' home Bored housewives strip To make men come.        *                                                                                                In Belgium, Paris And in Spain Our world, its joy and pain Has become a parlour game.        *   Let us now see What is on the BBC. A natural history programme shows What each of us already knows That for their life all creatures need To fight, to fornicate and feed.   It's hard to watch the refugees Come here upon their bended knees To beg of us a charity. Haven't they heard the homily That charity Begins at home ? "Go back whence you have come". "We are not blind to their harsh plight. Yet arriving here gives them no right To share in that they have not earned While our own dispossessed are spurned".        I have heard it said      About the Aztec dead      That those who died      In righteous cause      Went to the sky      To travel in eternity      With their chosen deity.      For which in holy duty      They gave the gods a booty      Of human lives      The beating hearts      And cast aside the other parts.      What is our Moloch      Who requires      Such a toll      On our desires      For so much slaying      Of this sort      To give the world      A news report ?                                                                                                      *   At least on the commercial show Advertisements may come and go To break the monotony Of this dull cacophony In stiff-faced forbearing Which for us is now too wearing.   "We have no quarrel with these folk" - That has become a woeful joke. Hitler, Robespierre, Attila the Hun Didn't say they killed for fun. They used the same reluctant words Before unsheathing bloody swords And later sought to justify Why the innocent also had to die.        So to bed:      That's what the diarist Samuel said.      And I would dare to guess as much      He had no quarrel with the Dutch -      Yet three times we were at war      As he noted down each whore      With whom he'd slept      Or wished he had      Which makes it all the more so sad      That we do not seem to learn      As we watch the sick-wards burn.        Tomorrow is another day.      What is there then for our further education.      You do not have to stay      With this jingoistic situation.        There are films      The ancient tales      Of battles fought      And victories won.      The stuff to cheer red-blooded males      With exploits that were really fun.                                                                                                        We stood alone      We won the War.      In childhood      That is all we saw.      Let other nations be ever thankful      Humble      Contrite and      Grateful      We saved the world      For their enjoyment      From a parlous      Predicament.