so smile, please

so smile, please. pic for poem

 

in shreds

all torn, left bleak

the frayed edges still

are laid flat like mould

on the corpse of failed hope

 

the tired man

in the morning aches

for more fluid limbs

sunshine in the senses

and petrol in the tank

to deny accumulating years

 

sounds,  emotion, intercourse

all around normal

cease to spark or lift

this dependant soul

until in truth

conscience pricks self-pity

 

so, praise for humour

when truth takes scissors

to the false preening of vacuity

and draws together scraps

of the fabric

that makes me whole

equinox

equinox. pic

 

pearlescent light on down

glows softly white

the swan, regal in its habitat

glides on the mirror of last night’s dreams

oblivious

to all but history and her mate

today

coming on the back of time

which shifted seasons and stepped one hour back

so now the dark water sucks

the summer’s heat into its depths

and all of this the mute swan

reflects

Park life

The truffle season begins..

 

 

a flare of green in the distance

from a high-viz jacket across the park

the smell of cattle, somehow sweet, carried like a vesper on

the air

and on the path a mushroom sprouts amongst the fallen leaves

all of these are clues to change

now that summer must relinquish its warmth

to the broad shoulders of another season

and we, the passengers, would do well

to witness the changing mood and prepare

for the light to cede it’s power, those lumens,

on shortening days when the sun’s grace is

merely a blown kiss and an ache that lingers

in sweet nothings

I take it in and hope to capture

some of it, some essence, to carry forward to the next time

and the next time

forever greedy for this gift of knowing

that I am small

Switch

Switch.pic.

 

Soft vows subside on the kerb

 in a gathering of yellows and browns surrendering

as a light wind makes the leaves skittish

 and those with memories,

those most recently released from the bough

and fallen through shafts of sun

 form a duvet that wraps itself

against the cold of a new,

coming season.

 This is yet another turning point

against a casual hand that insists

we go blind to history and forget

that time and tide are cycles

we dare not ignore

lest the light goes out.

Sin Street. Sitges. 2017.

Sin Street. Sitges. 2017.

 

Narrow streets criss-cross

in a town that once was

heavy with the swaying legs

of mariners and anglers home from the sea.

 

Now it is swollen by the lustful stares

of men who harbour thoughts of other men

and women too who have a passion

for one another’s views.

 

Rows of seats line up facing each other

far from ambivalent

readied as if to joust

with anyone in a queue.

 

The pedestrian is fair game,

not so much for molestation

but the hungry appraisal of passing trade

discussing weights and measures.

 

Sin Street seethes in any light

at any time of day

but comes into its own at night

when darkness swells the fever.

Preparation

Preparation.jpg

The sky spits loose slivers

of perspiration from above

that echoes off leaves

from a canopy of trees

that rustle and murmur

in a soft, disturbed breath

that is soothing.  Sounds kind.

A suitable accompaniment for

quiet thoughts

more often prone to find

hindrance and the staccato

of static,

that annoying rattle in

the displeased mind.

The roar of disapproval

in the untrained ear.

And all of it is the concentrate

of the elemental. Fear or joy.

So I wonder

‘which way is it for me’

Which leaf fall. Which echo

will resonate.

Which path will swallow

my stride.