Sunday, 23 April 2017



Around the girth of the earth
flung star-wards, darkling day,
on and on our longing, 
is streaming far away.
What wonders on our infinite journey
will ache in memory where they lay,
for we may never return to say, 
there was no berth upon the dead star,
way down the time-funnel night,
where a solitary obituary lay,
a signal twilight signature
upon a broken contract,
a black parody that pardon falling,
and calling, but never belonging,
in all the blistering light-years,
forever and a day.

Friday, 21 April 2017

A Poem is


A collection of bird’s eggs,
nestling in cracking colours and blown.
A shoal of coral fish turning in a flash
of emotion in the instant of an eye.
A tray of butterflies pinned in dust,
bereft in the dusk of death.
In the seam of words, mined and picked
in the lamplight of mind, by my hand
says the poet in the pocket of a poet,
just fine, and now they are mine.

The hooks of words hang the flesh
to sit ageing on the lines of the pen.
For grains of gold the arid dunes are sieved,
prospecting for the glint in their eyes.
The facets of a jewel down the cataracts
of thought, electrified and executed,
yet alive to the words that have to be said.

So many words to juggle and fall
scattered, gyrating and honed,
to sit forever in the mosaic of a poem.
The butterfly suns and bat moons pirouette,
until netted and metamorphosed into the
sedimentary strata of a poem, poised
to unleash that seismic event - I see!

Each word tweezed, and placed,
and tilted and in turn entwined.
Betrothed, one unto the other.
The embroidery of glossy words shines
as the story unfolds in perpetuity.
Gossamer webs spun and peopled,
trapped and bound.
The poet's neurones penetrate the reader's
guts and spill their feelings on the floor.
Their haruspicy preordained by the words.
Fossils re-fossilised.
Spinners re-spun, lures lured.
The crystal ball inverted looks out.
A mirror shard of a mirror shorn,
echoes in the mind, and calling back implores:
you saw, and I can see what you saw.
The chains forged in your smithy say it all.
The words linked and welded,
annealed and melded in thought.
I think the link is what I think.
So, lay it before me now and go.
Now let me see ...

Monday, 17 April 2017

Spring Tide


A cat morning pauses in sunny repose.
Jostle-tailed breezes in a conversation of trees
stirs the flotsam cherry blossom, and poppies well ablaze,
to cinder down upon the paths, smouldering in
the delicious thought - which way today?

To the bay where the sea is calling out,
or in, or seething and teasing
the nostril's assaulted horizon.
So off we go, must not forgo
our daily swim, preordained,
and consummated, in full flow.

Friday, 14 April 2017

Blue Pool


Waiting on Blue Pool bay
for the sea to vacate that seat,
slipping its fingers reluctantly,
caressing the sand with a
curtsy to the drying sun,
leaving a wet frisson of emotion
quivering, then calming to a reflection
of the children looking down at a depth
indiscernibly dark, with a silver bottom
shoal of ghostly fish dead and deep.

Gasping in the welcome panic,
cold thick salt air towering dark-sided
but what's below? Don't know!
Black weed sides squeeze in
and push the swimmer onto the lip
of the basin's trickling jump to the sand
in the bay of amusement in a summer still.
The next and the next, toe their reflection
devastating the mirror's magic
time and again and again.

Weary and nearly done we
sit in the sun that sets in a forge poker
from Tenby, through the knave's triangular eye,
squinting on the salt glistening bodies
of the children of sighing with
the generations who have found
Blue Pool in their days of daring
and running across the washed bay
dodging the bombing gulls, screaming
all together to the dying day glowing
in the mind's eye and sand feet skipping
amongst the starfish heaven on earth.

Climbing tired-sloped back to the sky
grass and bracken moor dunes
pushing them all the way to supper.

Blue Pool calms to the reflected stars
to wait the sea's thunder.

Tomorrow? It's a date.



Last slide.
It's time to go.
The last sweet.
No more ice-cream.
No more cake.
No more sand castles.
Switch off your iPad.
It's time for bed.
Just one more?
Grow up!
When the prognosis is terminal,
it's the last goodbye.