Though sparks may fly.

Though sparks may fly. pic


he cut my chord with barren words

that echo even now when I

in my sixth decade find spite hidden

in memories

that wake me in the night

and know that my stump

that bit of me we call the soul

is grieving still and asking

plaintive questions knowing that

darkness will over-take every one

of my days

and lay waste to

the child who is still-born

within me.

 So I carry my own foetus unwillingly

in search of life

though in it’s sac, nightly,

I wake flinching at wounds

it’s memory holds intact

forever unleashing the last word

with a prick

to burst the tight skin

of my pride

 and damning with loveless eyes.



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.

On the verge

On the verge.

Would beauty do?

Alone amongst the gristle of the everyday

A poppy waves not red but orange

On a supple stalk that eeks succour

From a brutal verge

A nondescript suburban highway

Cuts gradients and shapes

The enforced conformity of progress

Into vectors that cars and lorries

Stamp upon

Yet on the side

Emerging from the shoulders of a mole

Crusty pellets of dry earth

Sustain that orange flag

Defiantly romantic. Almost carefree

A splash of colour

Raising hope on a flag-pole

Against the dirty clamour

Of so many imagined goals

Softens the view

Through the park

Through the park

A boulevard of trees

In lines, feathered strides

Mark time in stubborn beauty

They are the sentinels of our views

As we travel through the park

On week-days in the rain

At week-ends in the sun

Always stoically in tune

So that dreamers can travel through

Oblivious in that beauty

Confronted by a gleaming, gilded statue

Of Diana in the pond, a watery roundabout

Around which in May white blossom

Will scatter scented parcels

Gifts to the grass and casual views

Rewards for travelling ever so slightly

Off the beaten path

Dear Bob

Dear Bob.

You passed away yesterday

Leaving a clean slate

And the feint trace, of warmth

Departing from hospice sheets

That held you in an open secret

For dignity to win that ‘fixed’ race

To the edge of darkness, then

Acceptance in sleep

Peeling away. All loss. All gain.


Everything now beyond recrimination

So swim now

Free from the tug of predatory tides

As if now is just imagination

Some superimposition

A victory for the nebulous thought

Over some brutal facts

Sit heavy, brooding in half-filled silence

Thud. The blood densely coursing

Thoughts haltingly coherent

Fragments at some barrier

Looking for lucid

And church bells chime

It is Sunday

Does that bring clarity?

Half truths

Half truths

Reach in, to the shadows that entice

All manner of feelings

Reflections of vice

These quiet moments float

In consciousness. Semblances

Of shadows that glance

The nerve endings of truth

An early morning walk

In mist that shrouds

Familiar paths with mystery

Evoking spirits from the past

Softly rolling their last breaths’

Like handkerchiefs,

on thermals of grief

Yet the blankets

In their viscous warmth, pull me

 back to comfort

Into the mist

An ineluctable embrace

Of what has been

This tolerable dream

Long last the memory

Long last the memory.

I am returned
To the place where my self
Comes and goes

That self which knows
Only the journeys
Memories as sleights of hand

The physical being
A carapace
Lost in space

I am solid here
Amongst the debris
That roots and puts a roof on me

My flesh and blood
The beating tic
I represent

Alone as always
In familiarity
Asking forever to be known