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,


Christopher. Pic for poem


Shout. Scream

deny all knowledge of that dream

The distance yawns

and fills the void

with stale air and residues

of harm

that neglect will come to know

as regret

that cloying self-pity that hangs

on the rags of remorse

and renders even love

to shrug

and wonder why


My boy who is now a man

has drifted in that domain

and knows so little of me

save that I sired him

and hurt his mother cruelly

He finds forgiveness hard

Those blank years went down

in flames and hate

so only silence and darkness

could void the pain

but now I sense the permafrost

might thaw

and I may be allowed

to make some recompense

small reparations to the ship of love

in this slow cycle of drawing out

the heat from that scream

and venom from the shout


May soft lips form

around the eternity of air

 that sucks and strains to find

the letters that hide in space

and just might spell

an end to longing

Not ever gone


Chess Mates. I have this sense of impending doom.


She rests there in dark matter

I apologize for using ‘she’

because mother it is you not she

I celebrate

your name encrypted on stone

an invitation to let go

to loosen tears and wet the earth

embracing you

while fond memories search for the present tense

in words stalled by time but still, their wings

are lamentations

that breathe a garnish on fresh flowers

the mourners grief a mist of warmth

and everything  succumbed to gravity

so that all around you have company

a regiment in this cemetery

and all of you ‘at ease’


Avoidance. Pic for poem


The dogs and their owners

smudges on this horizon are

just beyond the range of a call,

an imprecation to obey or

small-talk, that tittle-tattle

of the lonely

as the air they share in a conspiracy

of mounting grief

is just contained in pleasantries


I bear left and implore my dog

to follow suit

lest I am drawn-in to the oblivion

of chatter

for we are all, just, recognizable ciphers

in this space

So I duck between hedges that gape

with tired acceptance of this constant intrusion ( escape)

into another field and the welcome glare


of solitude

Two worlds separated by nothing much

A resentment perhaps. An irritation on the surface

of another, deeper disquiet

but that still and graven distance is like

the comfort of death

when knowing it all means

nothing at all





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.


Relay. Poem pic.


We pull back on the strings

of history

for comfort and to create

and re-create a sense of awe.


We praise the past with our lips

and words that search

for melody in the echoes

that souls leave on beaches and in fields.


Old bones fettered by gravity,

the sacraments,

weeping with impatience

muddle in and out of grace.


Until nothing is left

beyond peace and praise.

The memory embellished

and ready to be passed on.