Thursday, 20 July 2017

forever and a day



the gloaming o'er the bay,
    turning on the tide exhales,
and slowly dries on salted skins,
    of a summer day in Wales.


where such enchantments lay,
    the evening slowly pales,
and the coolness of dusk begins,
    on this summer day in Wales.

dream of heat, let's say,
    mutes the alpha males,
tunes them to the child within,
    on a summer day in Wales.


long in castled spades at play
    has subdued the emotional gales,
and sleep seeps deep there,
    in their summer day in Wales.

Wednesday, 19 July 2017

stampede in springtime


nostrils for newts 
fistfuls of frogspawn 
bog mint mud redolent 
of lamb on the bone
a boy running springwards 
with wings on his heels 
spawn-eyed with jam jar
and glistening in flight
insect a hunting 
down on his knees
caddis fly larvae 
the waters slide
adventures budding 
across the fields 
or over the hill 
let the river decide 
on the ricochet day
this way or that 
with so much urging 
let's go let's go
further and further 
a giant moon cheese
on a dusky horizon
the War of the Worlds
halt lads in mid-breath 
standing star-eyed
dark calling homeward 
where stories glide
together in lore 
and tolled down to bed
in this Eros village
snuggling in thrumming 
and wrapped in the clouds 
to dream of tomorrow 
where shotgun will ride 
to his galloping childhood 
hi oh silver away

so terrier bite 
on this feral age
on this time of your life
and never let go

Monday, 17 July 2017




So young, walking out on summer hand in hand.
Our newness overcome as our fingers entwine,
in a besideness pinked in dress and eyes,
we float beneath the dappled surface.

How you shine.

Floating oblivious we see, in a sky
rising thin and clear, in a sense sublime,
that with each light squeeze around your waist,
we knew that we were merging.

A first kiss turning in stopped time,
and I am yours and you are mine.

Was it really fifty years ago?

Sunday, 16 July 2017



The poetry flows in the Venice of my mind.
     Bells on backwaters of memory ring
        down the years, down the years.
                  And down the years
                         the tears
                         the tears,
                   that down the years,
         down and down upon the years,
    memories are backwatered on the bells,
canaliculated my Venice mind flows in poetry.


  Inspired by a text from Andrew in Venice

Saturday, 15 July 2017

Gone and forgotten

When the human race is extinct,
my poetry, along with the dead, 
will really be dead. 
there will be no one to remember. 
Don't forget that, will you?

Hello?   Hello? 

New lines in old bottles

Don't stop the flow
of the vintage lines,
or worry the sediment.
The bottle is crazed
and will surely blow,
ere all that’s meant is said.