Original Poetry

Carrion Bird

You, Vulture –
Paltry predator all dark swoop and circle
Presiding over impoverished prey.
You, Carrion Bird,
Claw at a country cracked open
Like a carcass;
Split at the ribs,
Brittle bone broken by too many beaks
And too many burdens.
You gouge out our eyeballs and eat them,
But we’ve been watching you –
Feasting on famished flesh
Knowing you can fly further afield.
Yes, you, Scavenger,
Skuttering across naked skulls,
Preening feathers when you’re full
All gluttony and greed
And get-give-me-grasping, –
And the guilt?
It was not your claws that did the killing:
Blame Lions for all the bloodshed,
Heap the horror on Hyenas,
But you, Mr. Marabou,
Do you hear?
Grim ghouls still groan in the grip of your grace.


Copyright © November 2017, Lyndsey England

Original Poetry

Elegy For Elephants

Between the boughs of a baobab embrace
A grey ghost groans in his wretched resting place:
Blessèd are the bare bones that bore the weight
Of ivory ignorance, greed, and hate.

The solitary procession prepares to pass;
A lonely elephant left for last
Whose Wisdom’s watched the world contract:
Watched bullets ricochet through rainsplash,
Watched the Zambezi run bloody as a body
broke open – bore witness
To every nimble knife gash. Cold
Cruel memory is not difficult to harness:
He unfurls his trunk to cradle bone;
Recalls how they callously cut through the carcass.
Grief is an abscess, putrid and gaping;
the Old Comrade trumpets, tired – an orchestra of aching.

You cannot but marvel at the nature of God’s grace
When David revels in the agony on this Goliath’s face.

Copyright © May 2017, Lyndsey England

Original Poetry



In between the hopscotch paint,
The jungle gym, the monkey bars;
Spread amid the tyre swings,
The small brown shoes, the sandpit;
In amongst the classrooms: the carpets scuffed,
The gutters clogged;
Falling into the swimming pool,
Summer sun, the diving board;
Framing roads leading home and back,
Too soon Septembers blooming lilac –
Just as afternoons taste of Tanganda
My youth is littered with

Copyright © March 2017, Lyndsey England

Original Poetry

My Africa Is Warmth – It Burns

It’s no belts in the backseat,
The sun shining and bare feet.
Some people say that Africa has a rhythm
But the reality of Africa is a flavour;
Tastes something like wet dirt, sunscreen,
And the sweat from manual labour.
Africa can rob a swarm of bees of their honey
And with sticky hands unscathed
Those same fingers snatch a beggar’s money.
It’s that empty-belly-ache-dying-for-a-little-taste,
Ballooning children, going to waste –
But sunsets;
Egg yolk yellow leaking into
orange spilling over
to kiss the watery cheek of Lake Kariba:
…………..Some say corruption is a two-way street –
Have you ever tried to love a place synonymous with deceit?

Copyright © February 2017, Lyndsey England

book recommendations

‘The Narrow Road To The Deep North’

By Richard Flanagan

Suggested beverage: coffee. black. no sugar.

‘The Narrow Road To The Deep North’ takes you into the heart of a Japanese Prisoner of War camp, right along the Burma death railway. Saturated in simple human suffering, this novel swings through death and desperation with every page pulling you in further.

Darky Gardiner. The Line. Jack Rainbow’s Wife. Nikitaris’s Fish Shop.

It’s the fragments of stories beyond Dorrigo Evans which make this book a masterpiece. It’s the undiluted humanity of the novel which makes it an absolute must read.

If you aren’t quite convinced just yet, I’ll start you off:

“Why at the beginning of things is there always light?”