Home

Home. A poem

 

wind-tied molecules cling to a park bench

their aggregated jewels drawing colour

from soft morning light

as the dogs and their owners stroll by

oblivious mites in the bigger picture

set fair between their couches and other dreams

and so

this moment in time is just an interlude

a duty woven into the fabric of responsibility

whence in truth all moments go

absorbed into “a life”

whose fragments are the working parts

of a mosaic

the carpet upon which we tread

it’s magic threads and woven messages

all ultimately left behind the door

darkness descending with the flap

the last post resounding on the mat

and emptiness obscures everything finally

all of those things we carelessly overlooked

those messages that were always in plain sight

gone from Welcome to Good Night

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

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

Clouds

CLOUDS. poem. pic

 

a rubble strewn sky of

white diaphanous handkerchiefs

wind-blown and shambling

against the blue that knows no distance

mocks me here, anchored by gravity

and my small, monotonous thoughts

but those clouds are drapes to a vision

I can linger in

like that Robin that rests for a fraction

on a branch so near to me

that I imagine he wishes to speak

and share with me a moment so intimate

we both make a vow of secrecy

Storm

Storm. pic

 

 

The light is wicked

lascivious in its portents of fear

laying waste to familiar sights

it mocks

as we retreat

a blitzkrieg emerging rudely

from some previous complacency

 

All along the coast

a frustrated tsunami  rehearses

with a roiling fist the desecration

it would unleash

if everything were to come together

in a fusion that mankind  would recognize

as an answer to sleights.

He said; “mycelium spores”

Poets for Hire.jpg

Bob and Madge

Walk ‘Dash’

Every day in the park

like metronomes in pursuit

Of a persistent illusion

The dog, obedient but loping

is ever able to break the sound barrier

with a spurt of inherited genes.

A greyhound for Bob and Madge

Both in their eighties

Are sprightly still

And believe, I assume

They will outlive

‘Dash’

One day I noticed a ring of mushrooms,

incongruous amongst the rough mown grass

I asked Bob, ‘ how so’?

and here I paraphrase

“these faerie rings articulate

what the earth silently knows

and how the soil accommodates

secrets that we can anticipate

with knowledge of the seasons and,

folklore

The embedded wisdom of people

concealed only until

the question is asked.”

Pet by another name

Kiki

Kiki

Pet by another name

 

She responded to an ancient call

Annoyingly

The pull of the wild

And sped off despite our cries

Shrill remonstrations and whistles

 

That bloody dog, Kiki, took flight

In Bushy Park

Chasing hapless deer who bobbed

And weaved across the bracken

Retreating ineluctably from view

 

Until eventually the gloaming November sky

Was wan. All turned grey

Except for shreds of muted colour

Mirages in a desert of disappointment

And she was gone

 

Four paws in a whirl of selfish pursuit

Lost to reason

Lost me

But found terror in detachment

And nearly caused an accident

 

I got a call

‘Have you lost your dog?’

From a lady in the Pheasantry

Who’d been forced to make an emergency stop

In order to avoid the bitch