Walk on

Walk on

Walk on

Walk on


The sports field, fallow now, the season’s gone

Grass grown brown, untended between the posts

The referee, more than a whistle away

And I walk with the dog

Listen to the raucous chants of crows

All black and maudlin

And see random drips of yellow, wild flowers

Self-seeded dreams

And catch the perfume in early morning heat

For summer is here and it slows the blood

Makes more of the senses

When I am at peace



I have made my own oasis

Cool and quiet

Luxury in peace

Though a fly drones

Determined to annoy

And I wonder if it has a more appealing side

Distracted by philosophy

I feel that now I have enough

And this would be

A good moment

To pass away.

Hidden Truths

Hidden Truths


Hidden Truths

Talk to me please

For I am troubled

By dreams that refuse

To sleep in quietness

Appearing only to confuse

And leave simpers in the margins

Of wakeful thoughts

To register on the scale

Of my conscience

Half drawn

The ineluctable stain

Of stretched flesh

As scraps and fragments

On a canvas

That reeks of errors

Remorse and half-told truths

Extruded from a private place

 Seeps into the world of eyes


Photograph to illustrate poem, 'Splinters'

St Bartholomews Church, Smithfields, London.



I would do something today

Like explode a myth

Or put air around a tired thought

And smile from ear to ear

In a public space


Oh yes, I would

And be generally, emphatically, me

This denizen, this soul

A growing remembrance

Of a life more or less explored


I would

And be less confused

More playful

More generous

Just once



This blank page is like a day

Full of atoms that may break

Ignite or fall away

Knock on wood.

In The Morning Fog

In The Morning Fog

In The Morning Fog

The Morning Fog


Like early morning streets

Doused by spirits, sag

As cloth in sullen pleats

On a ransacked pile

So half-spent air cloys

Smoky. Clinging to low contours

And the spirit of youth

Long gone

Will not return


So it is again today

For me

A tourist in a barren landscape

Padding amongst discarded receipts

Those promises that bright eyed types

Casually dispensed. And cast

As loose seed for new lawns

And symbols of hope for those

Quick witted enough to cultivate


All of it somehow

Carrying sullen weight

Moon shavings. Mine

Blisters of light

With faint echoes that pulse

In patches on the worn contours

Of a small township

That now lives for hope

In the morning fog.