In January you're planning a September recital
for your orchestra with your Son Peter.
You are reddened by the warmth,
creating sounds.
Whereas I am with my poetry
pushing the boundaries,
reading yesteryears accentuation,
shifting my craft.
You’ve liked my pastoral poems,
I await your sonic bites.
You're clearing an audible path
from another world,
pouring light into your notes.

The girl you left behind
Her demour devours from the green vetch

The boy is softening
To her door, he came
This is how it was imagined

Little by little the days grow shorter
You shouldn’t sleep with a wild one
Let the north star be your guide.

Spirits nestled in castled ruins.
Frangipani caught in the rain.
Poppy dogs with sheepish eyes
Happy as pie Larry in Lincolnshire fayres.
Dragons Tooth flowering late.
Ordinariness dressed in leitmotifs starts to fade

Dream yourself back in the 70s
have a thunderbird wine
and recall Soho
with their ***** mac brigade
Blondes grow galore
under the halogens lights
Stars they strike a memory
Ride a White Swan
a serious Yellow Ford Cortina mk 3
and a fine mettel of a DIY  Judo book
with your thousand island sauce
served at eel pie island

Like a master coat
for all occasions
you wear your school colors well
yet when the gong sounds
you stand to attention
such is your inverse discipline,
of one so institutionalized
who cannot see the woods from trees

Learning Latin as a dead language
reflects the ethos of the school
- parrots at dawn
You feel you are wearing a straitjacket
when outside in the real world
and your dawn swims
don't inspire confidence
like salted caramel
as an after taste

I wish I knew moonflowers
they seem to strike an accord
like ambulance chasers
perhaps my gardener could plant them
if failing that some narcissus
would sound fine
Yellow seems the color now
it bleeds a wide field
as an avalanche of people
evacuate their once proud country
and the new barbarians
foil human corridors
as we face a precipice
of Moonflowers waiting to wilt away

In a road with endless rows
Where do I begin
Forever waiting
I talk with words I have invented
The Suns yellow light
and the God of the night
will retreat
The laid bellow aplomb doesn't absorb
and this raging tempest
my consciousness revived