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My roots are in the West of England.

I write infrequently, when the mood takes me. You'll find here a collection of the romantic, the nostalgic, the inspirational, the humorous and the downright trivial.

I enjoy reading beautiful language that satisfies the tongue. I strive to produce it myself, and succeed on rare occasions.

Favourite 20th Century poets: Seamus Heaney, Philip Larkin, Dylan Thomas and Ted Hughes.

At the time of editing I haven't written for over a year. (Inspiration welcome!! Find me at marcuslane@live.co.uk)
My roots are in the West of England.

I write infrequently, when the mood takes me. You'll find here a collection of the romantic, the nostalgic, the inspirational, the humorous and the downright trivial.

I enjoy reading beautiful language that satisfies the tongue. I strive to produce it myself, and succeed on rare occasions.

Favourite 20th Century poets: Seamus Heaney, Philip Larkin, Dylan Thomas and Ted Hughes.

At the time of editing I haven't written for over a year. (Inspiration welcome!! Find me at marcuslane@live.co.uk)
Marcus Lane
Marcus Lane
Apr 16, 2013      Apr 16, 2013

Stop all the clocks, cut off Big Ben,
Prevent PM’s Questions, we’ll have none of them.
Silence the protesters and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let a fly-pass circle overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message She is Dead,
Sing the hymns that were her greatest loves,
Let guardsmen wear black cotton gloves.

She squeezed the North, the South, the East and West,
The mines were axed, The Poor repressed.
She was Reagan’s love, his talk, his song,
We feared she’d last for ever: we were wrong.

The Tories are not wanted now, vote out every one
Pack up The Express and dismantle The Sun;
Pour away the tears and sweep up the wood –
Thatcherism is gone for good.

With apologies to WH Auden
Marcus Lane
Marcus Lane
Dec 23, 2012

She peels each wafered layer
To expose the next.
Bitter tears lie at her heart.

© Marcus Lane 2012
Marcus Lane
Marcus Lane
Aug 15, 2012

Parasitic friend,
Your promises to me were
Laced with poisoned breath.

© Marcus Lane 2012

Author's note: This haiku is a return to some sort of writing after a break of two years. (Not owing to an addiction, I hasten to add!)
Marcus Lane
Marcus Lane
Mar 21, 2011

We sit cross-legged in the story corner
Breathing faint ammonia smells.
Table chants and hymns echo through corridor acoustics,
All creatures great and small.

We are wedged in a tangle of podgy thighs,
Grazed knees, scabs and warts.

And Anthony is sitting alone again
Where he can do no harm.

Yet he said he would bring it, and bring it he has.
Its tiny white head is nosing over
The  hem of his pocket,
Whiskers a-twitch and
Eyes like tiny blood blisters ripe for popping.

A shudder of shivering whispers and
Nervous heads are half turned:

Yes, Anthony is smiling his special smile.

Mrs Lloyd has found the page,
My lids are squeezed tight
As I urge my mind to follow her away
From here, away from now.

For playtime will be murder once again.

© Marcus Lane 2010
Marcus Lane
Marcus Lane
Mar 21, 2011

Gold tipped crocus spears
Pierce the frost-skinned garden's heart:
Winter lies bleeding

Marcus Lane
Marcus Lane
Mar 21, 2011

Spring rejoices to
The trumpeting daffodils'
Triumphant fanfare

Marcus Lane
Marcus Lane
Mar 21, 2011

Sunshine,
Birdsong
And children drunk on
Lemonade
And laughter.

That Welsh picnic
Has lasted forty years
And will last forty more
In dream

And in nightmare.

The stream babbled
Over pebbles,
Fern fronds
Brushed our sun-browned shins

Till the dead sheep
Slugged us in the guts.

Bloated and bulbous,
The body dammed the stream,
Its lifeless eyes
Crawling with life.

Those pearly marbles were
A child’s looking glass into death.

The pebbles we hurled
In reckless revulsion
Were the silent screams
Of violated youth,

And those dead sheep thuds
The dawning of our mortality.

© Marcus Lane 2010
 
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