Indoors the ornamental grass
within an oblong planter,
stares out dejectedly from its base.
My eyes convey cusping thoughts,
willing the blades to whither -
forming yet another nexus
reminding me of Cerrice.
To see action through your Artillery,
your standing eyes betrays other emotions.
Longing to touch you
yet to see your through body,
form and no substance makes a stray bed of rest.
Craters of realisation launch the chime.
What left have I, having teased the lesion.
A crawling victim stands direction less, and having learnt,
I will disarm your vague distractions.
According to lessons I call on regret and treasure its tears.
Surely past sufferers will empathise.
Mud and clay will wrap itself into an ointment
Then we can be reborn.
It was always from the same breath
you were called a vixen and hen.
The cue from on the hoof words jarring.
They wanted to cut your hair,
to wrestle ambition,
chide your Soliloquy.
By the soak of the covert
all she wanted to was wash
the dust from her feet,
proceeding to use a pumice
to ascertain perfection,
she recognised the endless toil.
Submitting to the widening silence,
her cochlear impressed -
the whisper of what it was to hear a stream,
the disciple's quest - her inner strength :
wading courage, sharpened focus
the weathered course, she longed to know.
Tally Crane ,Oak and bream
the amble of time proceeded
mindful her shawl swept
towards a larger cycle .
We spoke of our tomorrows
and whispered a paragon promise
as laminated truth,
never knowing any other texture
for all we had were our eyes
conveying this pledge
our gazes outshine - glowing,
we could never journey
on borrowed moonlight.
Winter's edge flurries -
a carpet of fox scavenged litter
iced puddles of hubris.
Whilst The Christmas message is relayed
Rebecca erects a humming line
to keep away the crows and parquets
from her prized cabbage and kale.
but the threadbare sound is
reminiscent of cymbals,
carrying thoughts of a lost carnival.
She journeyed to the coast
and caught an amateur performance of the
"Seven Deadly Sins", in and out of situ.
The deserted beach, ghostly
yet littered with wicker creels
the fisherman their whispers silenced,
better console with tomorrow's wise
in hope of an epiphany.
had long given up the ghost
Twilight tried to allay the ravelling .
She needed resilience,
for those fiery Sunday visits
endured by her confused Son.
Trumping by prevarication,
until no more, she retorted.
Her honeysuckle dreams
Those plumes of bonfire smoke
before and the after, differ now
on contrite compost.
Whilst you daydreamed
Your eyes seemed to lose their sheen
and you'd forget how to feel.
You shut the car door hard
as if someone who wanted
to aspirate closure.
We spent two nights at the Cooden Beach hotel,
so we could hear June Tabor and Oyster band
proceeding this performance
we had four slices of toast and an Americano.
Your pink canvas bag
and polished stilettos
hid an issue or two
playing a parallel game.
Sleep in your wishes
Drunk on sapphire wine.
The atelier has drawn
its last cobweb.
The empty Sun
has banished its 49 saints,
the road home
is as ephemeral as the
first punch rendered.
On an Archipelago
far from septic isles,
Deep in silent azure
I place broaches and pins
in a wooden box, for safe keeping
And set her dreams on a bed of lichen,
fields of leafy pathway stretching
she’ll nestle woven toad flax and larkspur
to steadfast her conscience.
The Birds of the flock
thrush and dove, sensing her bridle
rejoice in her Mother lode,
precious be their plenteous dawn.
If a hymn is forgotten
there is no duress,
in the midst of a day
the willow still glistens,
inspires another longing song.
Without words our feet
carries the distance.
If there is a strong ideal
then wait for the graze ointment,
perhaps by then
I will never be caught.
If there ever was cedar shingle
that needed repairing,
three layers underneath
may never be enough.
Tomorrow feels its wear
perhaps my palms after all,
will not be pious ,
yet under the leitmotif
of the gilled
Life and I don't listen
Some conquered words muster
tithes of despair,
just for their being.
Someday ennoblement will sway,
a candle burning the spittle
of vengeance that should
wear no armour.
moral rectitude etches
the tableau off the dawn,
Swans too smudge the landscape.
The muses long gone ,
ghosts sit in red houses
contemplate in whispers yet,
forever decisive in vacillation
their hands delineate,
the autumnal canopy
a symphony of coming despair.
Black tulips on the marbled floor
have no place here.
They remind others of how we existed
suitable only for that dark journey,
by those deemed more worthy,
under whose azure skies,
only their abodes could shimmer
for we can have no part .
Leaves mottled in their separateness
turn our seasons
into days of lanquidity,
out stretched briars
tear at the stolen codex.
surmising exoteric warnings,
that magpies again steal,
under whose inciting night
can we wade this walkway.
Amongst the oyster shells,
and herring bones,
we drank our marigold wine,
well versed in starlight laughter
our future seemed twined.
I had always imagined your palour,
your etherealness wove a spell.
Your shadow cast until the dawn
forever nearing the shoreline.
Hope fell by the wayside
illumined you flurried
into the azure depths
a timeless steely rote
The lightest touch brisks my skin,
lost in halcyon amongst the wild marigolds
and cornflowers, I play with laughter.
Azure skies roll into my being
like a Shire horse I am caught
in trusting servitude.
The bladed grass slivers
a serpentine's story
florescent in camouflage.
As a reborn sprite
I commend myself.
I am eager to express
This is not a playground,
nor a hawking station
adrift in a saline breeze.
I am not surprised at this reaction
personal pride foils this wanton randomness
I feel surrounded by poetry books
and before long I lie to myself
inventing that I have endless possibilities
For those ailing worlds,
Brave leaves blow erstwhile.
Those suffocated trees
poise down the High Street
fickle wind - heckles
once proud alleyways,
whose heavy Terracotta pots
are moved from their base
and so broken dahlias lay prostrate
lamenting their cruel dominion.
There’s never enough reliance available
In safeguarding your bearded iris
from mellow night thieves
who sculpture dug holes
just for the fun of it
Progress is wasted here
the high street draped in uniform glass fronts
why shouldn't we play our bugle
to rebuke this shard ?
yet in a corner there's still a market street
refusing the final nail,
there's a shoe, bakery, cycle and jewellery shop,
in our hearts we will
wear pride to headline the clarion call
and shed anger at being accused of,
carrying congress with the past
at our coffee stall.