i am the proud pond
you are the ocean
our worlds cross a tortuous  route
I am the mottled web
you are the hinterland
mighty when expressed
through the seasons we endure

Dogwood shimmers in the late winter light.
Yellow red and in between.
Jenny likes the nearby willow.
The white buds draws her mind
to the later treat
a walk to the snowdrop trail
where upon Peter will renew his vow
one day set up home at Stevenage
so close to Benington Lodge
her favourite  indulge

The original photograph
Daguerre type
ebbing away as though in water,
memories filed like potassium deposits
duotoned  as droplets of likeness
a prophecy of developments awaits

The poet needs a muse,
it can be a well lit woman
or if failing that a cat.

To thrive in your company 
away from everyday cares.
As your words sway the splendour
of wanting to feel home together
I'd picture you as a Emperor dragonfly
and I a Hellebore Red Lady
and in the in betweenness we'd win each over,
you would be the free flight
I the settled  contemplation
the still thrift of spring.

Russian black grass and an ornate pattere  garden,
pheasants basking in uncertainty
culpable designs eyeing towards.
Yellow book inclusion,
asks more than the obelisks shadows casting down the acers,
the mia crocus still a red mist
before laying the asphalt driveway.

we hear the dancing men giggle,
**** cloth comedians
two Tarzans twittering
like nightingales singing in berkley square
their female wrestling partners
as bereft as any whale
longing for ruby rings
to signpost the hell out of there.

she served  me iced tea
from her porch
the  smell of heavenly magnolia lingered,
like her locked up emotions
she was delicately bruised
but I would not rush her
no canary could I let her be
recuperation  would come in ones
unguarded moments.

the nodding snowdrops cannot compete
with the ornamental grass swaying in the wind.
The pathway to the pond is unsteady
its wet ground giving way,
no room for the artist to paint.
The threatened rain has not arrived
whilst  the camelias gives a sad hue
of what should have been

For therapy i call the fire brigade to
to inform them Westminster bridge
here i come
and daydream of pushing  nannies
and their charges towards  tumbling waterfalls
and with my friend Judy
we watch tall men jump over ditches of dahlias
in the foggy dew
for no other reason than
we want to be amused.

i like to kick the autumn leaves
they crample neath my shoes
as i take a drag on my Marlboro lite.
I'm that brazen girl with a with beige jacket
and fanfair of lovers names unrequited.

How can you bare a broken promise
or loiter after a broken date?
Sad Samantha lost her chance,
no Frank Sinatra vinyl nights
serenading young lovers in,
or walks down moonlit colonnades.
She's just a victim of a steely heart whose
strung himself  around someone else's waist
and  dyed blonde hair

Fickle in self and in nature
at least Winter is giving me a stir.
I'm already seeking daffodils and snowdrops
going to impossible  lengths
trains and taxis just to glimpse
the glory of those shortened days
where my irises softened by the mild hue
gives a wide credit to the prevailing next month

Your stained life came to fruition,
that frustrated lament
like the wind whistling down a chimney,
you still held your parched desires
to be awaken brick by brick
your opaque eyes mused
a  lost rusted recoil
from where your head used to turn,
down gullies and cul de sacs
until you ran out of retreats,
a pied-à-terre of disrepute
like a dreg sipping sloe gin
your nostrils flaring in the void

clusters of heaped leaves
lodge against sunsets orange hue
turning towards autumns fanfare
I sense this  time of cleansing
a shroud without a name descends
taking only twigs to ignite an epiphany
Autumn you are a cove with an argent must
whose manifest dusts rotted boughs
an ecosystem to reciprocate
considered hope

my wife tells me Lady Bird Johnson
was a woman of reknown
until she career blighted Catwoman meow!
She had a problem recognizing people had a difference of opinion into Nam
Eartha orders her own taxi
water under the bridge for Lady Bird

The morning brings the moths
her cupboard bare,
she attempts to prise the day
what to wear?
snatching thoughts all is  balance
nasturtiums or foxgloves,
crumbling trellis stakes
she wraps a blanket around herself
and sits in the garden , guarding motionless

How could snowdrops be said  
in the same poetic breathe as blue February?
But Anna  has learnt
its best to trust her own instincts.
She never believed in canopies
foral invitations were never her thing
just the cold sun streaming
on her blind-side
strolling,
Nye nervously trembling
for the right inspiration.

She counted the night away
the neon street lights disappaiting,
sitting on her grandmothers crocheted bed cover
her pink knickers hid her body wide goosebumps,
the froid unheated bedsit
plied with her emotional turmoil,
vexed boyfriend and always tomorrow.

After the rain settles
the Fieldfare appear one by one
The fledging Sun paints shadows,
clouds part themselves
Barefoot,
on cold bracken
we look for the threadbare
stumps and leaves
Winter cold,deep
against its snare, snaps.

Joanne is wary
the seashells once listened
now no longer confide her secrets
the flickering candle has already cast
her life line
night times tides have peaked
the easiest of passages are lost
and as much as you meander
rest assured the reason
will one day untangle you

we need a broom
to sweep away Sundays clowns
if failing that a noose
to make headway
Mondays so inclined in devilment
her cold chill has enthralled  me

Down Edgbaston I forgot how to feel.
Perhaps the cumulus clouds
could downsize my anger;
envy would  pulsate into ebony,
under my rubicund smile
inherited from yesterday

I've both toasted and buttered
having been served equally well
with marmite and marmalade.
I've dinned in Brugge and Halifax
trod the true path of kings
in places of requisite legend
still flavour claret
in truer climes
and tried to sting like a bee
composite and true living
slight of hand yet self assured

Are the bluebells really a delightful hue
when they habitat railway banks
They are wild and not so rare
like the country we reside in.
We are a barren land
once proud but
with all wealth stripped away
Our Jurassic coastline erodes
likewise a once bedrock of national pride.
Our spirits wane,
we are too self conscious to crowd
amongst our own.
We have been too disorientated
to uphold our truisms

There won't be many holidays to Europe  for sometime.
Calais the  gateway is the folly of despair
it's effectively the death knell for a Europe  good feel factor
thats why United Kingdom holidays are  adequate,
there's enough time to start as soon as possible,
sans health insurance,
We've got our  National Health service at the ready,
good  hygiene for restaurants and hotels
with enough burgeoning coffee venues
to blow a trumpet.
Love the clouds and the greenery,
longing to return to Ludlow
their restaurants are renowned.
Otherwise,  Hampshire, Derbyshire  you name it
history, tradition, local accents
Who needs Europe ?
We're free in our own paradise.

Weather tight
mist roaming over
ineptitudes follows
waterfalls and serpentines.
All would be good with  crampons, boots and fleece,
if prior instructions were  followed
but with a misfit  Meetup group
half are experienced
the rest are the stuff of strugglers
break or make every one of them
on the  Brecon Beacons

the night shoals of city lights,
where stumping feet
gives their own interpretation
to the baseness of silence
nothing is serene
just marked time
with feral pride
stretching into tied darkness.

Gumbo the sprat reminds  you he has
no place to go,
away from the night shoals
swimming mid stream,
he dithers if the pier should burn down,
could he bear if the anglers drowned?
yet he's not too axiomatic
knowing right from wrong.
but again theres no pretense
only a presence
swallowing this illusion of depth.

Emmerdale lost her confidence
and that's why she never go
to the brockwell lido again
she hated the way Jimmy
tried to pick her up
at the The Florence ale house,
she forsakes the 196 bus on Tuesdays and Fridays
to spend her time in the cookie shop
talking to the old dears about their senior cats in clover
and budding clematis

Down forlorn cafe this sweet latino chick
always serves  me with a smile
I underlie it with an order of chicken noodles
One for me and now invisible friend

Croydons just a new build away
if it wasn't for the once East European office blocks fad
its now inviting human capital
to dwell in jolly new builds
and with the new Westfield proposed
most indigenous inhabitants will sell up.
They knocked down the Warehouse Theatre
to prove barbarians rule.
The Central library feels lobotomised
is it part privatised ?
Nothing lasts or stands for real
in Croydon
its a place with an itch
whatever dog it represents
is your guess.

In the pitched tent
the red coated troupe
and yellow buttoned clowns
drown within the spectators  laughter
like cuckoos spit
lost in their swirl
I imagine morris dancers
perfunctory as whirling dervishes
far surpassing  the circus masters revel

Bedsit lights flicker
floorboards  creak
the night prolongs plans
to see through the situation
An envisaged train journey to Canterbury
may just reawaken this
side of reason
realising clear thoughts  
the richness of discourse 
where I may visit some folk club
summarise these my questions
through a better door

The aconites are nowhere to be seen
but at least the crocuses are in bloom.
Regretfully the snowdrops weren't in clutching swatches
but were scenic like your smile.
A promise goes a long way,
shared interests and a taxi ride
to Chippenham.
Coupledom is everything.
We learn about one another
in seasonal guises.

They don't have donkeys at  South Bermondsey or market stalls.
The pigeons find it easy to loiter
the thoroughfare now
fish and chip wrappings are considered passe.
I wonder if the girls should dress  in black
as a counter statement
against the new builds above Tesco.
A sort of mourning for these  changes.
What's left of community?
last shot down by mothers helpers.
Town planners,  gosh
nail and  execution executive

All those madmen buying bunches of  flowers
on Valentines Day,
tables double booked at the Restaurant
weekend Brugge chocoholic confession
yet all my cat wants is to be stroked
the gentle purring of the unfazed
overlooking my patio  
and pots of love lies bleeding.

a steamed bowl of pak choi with organic rice
and then a multi vitamin
with an acute accent on folic acids
washed down by the strenuous street lights
if life is commotion
a whispered assumption
oils the cogs in our flatshare
unless we typical girls
have failed  to make the grade.

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

The cafe tables are littered with left overs
pigeons forever observant
their regularity like faith.
Meanwhile its halibut tonight
Friday fish night,
are we so different?

even the wind chases down her cause,
sequestering at her leisure
Joanne seeks memories
beyond her highgate bedsit
she dreams of tenderness
but could never quite divulge
where it's journey ended
She thought the breeze could carry her defences
Only now, she concedes.

She comes in colours
blowing the wind for her cares
Everyday is the same
a reign without a brace
satin laces for her hero

Now and then I think of Jenny
her long legs with bronze tan
and her ruffled blonde hair
in the after thought
of my long stare.

Another time the stars will seize  you
parading your aspirant hopes,
first touch still bristles
that earlier shine, while not quite alone
for seeds of dreams will broaden your shoulders,
walking taller than your beckoning.

Paper moons fly by  like chances sped ,
on that dismal day
the rain poured down as ungenerous  confetti
and Jennifer with her until then understanding  smile
opined that she had found Mary simply more interesting,
arguably a plaything for the near future
and like a cat she draw blood again
to preserve her power of severance.

The midday dog schemes and dreams
meanwhile my neighbourhood is so dim
not a scivvy to wash a dish
or a calico cat to fufill a wish

She kept a promise to herself
by sweeping her lair
to  remind herself  work had to be done,
rayon waistcoats and crossing rubicons  
to iron out those industrious imperfections
that had made for her rugged fayre ,
no longer undecided  she'd vanish the dust
from the present
that had slyly thwarted the fullness
of her bond.

Raisins and pebbles jingle
in your frayed pocket
what else  have you lost?
whilst repentance is at your leisure,
the end is nye
remember the rain recounts tears
and wagon wheels ghosts memories
stand tall if you can
albeit at your own acquiescence.

Autumn is forgiving.
Its gentle gullet sways,
still as a water closet
withholding the wind.
Its nostrils flare
but never shudders.
Its brittle soil yields at first touch
It takes in tubers and roots
an enveloping kindness,
and lets the rain pour,
gushes into the all clear.

There's little hope read in my Thesaurus
for that perfect word
perchance a summation,
some see this as a plea of sympathy
yet usher an insincere pray.
Some will scribe Snow into the pretext
telling the  reader with similes
this is not be a test,
there's no rusty pen
furtively this  is  accepted  as their non de plume.
Stained  hands, with scissors
Self  healing  with  hordes of papier-mâché