a tendency to lie

a tendency to lie. pic



our thoughts float

heavy in air so easily polluted

that they go as blind quislings in search

of a harbour that they can attach to and berth

for they seek comfort too

and we, lazy souls,

are not their best keepers

as we breath lustily with a desire to satisfy

the vainglorious self

when generosity would better serve

our shared experience

Dog logic


Dog logic. pic


the river today is a gun-ruffled grey

hard faced to the wind, which

we are told, is from Siberia

freakish in March

because the jet-stream has been reversed

so now snow lays amid the rigid stalks of grass

whose defiant green blades wait

like old campaigners for the thaw

which, when it comes,

will render all of this to the long march of history

but in a hot opportunistic streak

Tinkerbell steals one of Daphne’s gloves and runs

in a tumult of fur away with her prize

Kiki sets to barking and bossing the other dogs

whilst we, keepers of the leads, huddle in the warmth

of our shared solidarity

wearing daft hats against the elements

making small talk and putting cement

into the cracks of adversity.




to all of that

loquacious man

you spent so much

time in air

with stories that sailed

on perfumed winds

close to the edge of reason

and frequently beyond

but the fuel you used

high octane stuff

was poison

so when you sucked

you swallowed tainted fuel

and lit a flare

that could only ever do one thing

gutter, stutter or fizzle out

and you reached all three

now you leave

a crater on the moon

one holed sock

and a legend

that could never be.


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. 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


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