Murmurs

Murmurs. pic.

 

the squeezed ooze of blue ink on Basildon Bond

rendered with care from a mother to her daughter

and signing off with, ‘all my love’

this small parcel of observations

from an old lady in Southbourne

lays like an unexploded emotion

on a desk in the loft

a soft Dove of Peace long dead

still sending murmurs across the generations

her gentle devotion so evident

it outlasts the post

and leaves me as the keeper of hope

a guardian at the gate of future generations

and I must admit, I baulk

at the responsibility

Ever Yours,

mayday. mayday

mayday. pic for poem

 

snow is falling with stalled gravity

ponderous in white

a gift we’re told, from Russia

whose flakes stutter in our shocked air

inscrutable as they land

whispering in thick accents

and huddling in a carpet of nonchalant threats

on our lawns whose thoughts

have already turned to spring

as shocked daffodils blanch at the intrusion

dog walkers assemble to dissemble

that the biggest ‘dump’ will be on Thursday

and so we all return to base

 and wait

for everything we ever said

to come true

recurrence

Recurrence. pic for poem.

 

what price all this useless beauty

when dreams recall

the drowning man

in folded blankets

and how the dark recoils

in strangled places

exposing flaws

on naked skin

and whispers shout

with mocking sounds

behind closed doors

in deep, deep wells

so only now

one might feel

euphoria

closing in

Take me to the river

Take me to the river. pic for poem.

 

blown down centuries unseen

the rivers limit

the rivers keen

a finger in the pie

of this island that is home

she swells with the tide

as she rides her natural imperatives

and recedes to reveal her banks and shores

with the incessant strip-tease of our lady, The Thames

all memories dissolved in the turmoil of constant change

but she is as modern as the craft

who take their pleasure upon her

whose oars slice the silken surface

making cuts for progress that heal

in the swirls between the stitches of strokes

 just as propellers screw her waters

into a vortex of energy

soon spent in froth and heaving swells

that slump upon the banks

but it is not as if she doesn’t care

for the truth is as prosaic as her habits

she is a witness without conceit

rising and falling in continual prayer

for history to unfold with virtue

Utterances

Utterances. pic

 

as we speak

we cling like partners in a dance

to our very own alphabet

drawn tight by desire

and we would, if we could

make a frieze of the trick

of language

 

the swollen air we launch in speech

is full of gifts

and on reflection it is sad

that so many are returned unheard

in the transmission of loss

that only time

in its wise fractions can attest