I am a metaphor
the one you counted before,
the devil is in the detail.
the queried width of the sun
I am made of woe
yesterday's worth was a country mile
and I pledge my tears
now the war is won
it is so beautiful

She's sleeping in a rose tainted dream
she can almost sense the calm of the coast
Once she loved a man with hands of foam
his words went through her soul,
naked incessantly so
don't cry child the water is warm
there's a scope for listening
carried by the wind

Every young had a wonderful dream
to be the birdman of altacraz
And now with your friends by your side
you've reached maturity
And the songs you sing
are the ones before
By the station
your words were a summation
and our pockets were empty
Then you joined the money men
you had to have your belly full
until they picked your bones
as you count the carnage
unable to beat them

my sweet acorn laid there,
to feel your love
the thirst is spoken.
let it go on this way forever,
this dewy feeling,
with your wild acres
and cool brown hair.

I wish I were a vehement wind,
lofting your hopes away,
tussling your identity under bed linen,
with their origins abruptly shelved

I wish I could torment you,
along a long path,
painting you a long frown,
under the glare of an expectant lunar surge.

My Mother was an Accountants wife,
who sometimes spoke Afrikanesse,
on the telephone
when the children were naughty.
Growing hydrangeas in the cellar,
took up CAB in Camden.
The domestic disputes she could tell

Later took up crosswords
after finding a Left Sun Crossword
then became a master.
There was nothing she couldn't do,
draw freehand domestic animals.
Had the prestige of planning healthy diets,
Aubergine  to appear as chopped herrings,
deft with an Afrikanner chop.

Kindness  follows closely behind
the day is done
Nighttimes dreams flourish

October  attached itself to my window.
Dahlias breezed like a thief in the night.
Happy to share in Autumn's  raise.
Farsides I wish well myself.
There is a rusty red, ginger aroma.
Silver needles shedding from the hide.
Autumn's sun sunk in fallowed fields.
Daydream in a lost October
We were happy to share in its murmur,
to tailgate the night.