Two buzzards on a winter tree
Side by side, smart and efficient
Guardians of my countryside
They don't care about Brexit
They are not interested in all the silly politicians
Unless they were dead
In which case they'd eat them
And tidy up the place

The Native American man
Is combing his hair outside Primark
With his eagle feathers and his pipes and drums
Waiting in a cardboard box
Waiting
For the concrete to disintegrate
Greggs and Marks and Spencers crumble
To the beat of the drums
Waiting
For green to creep across the face of Waterstones
And bilberry bloom at the bus stop
And a moss carpet pad the safety barriers with velvet
Waiting
For the beat of the drums
For those feathers to soar over forest
And the silk of his hair fly free in the wind

Each one
Is like a drop of nectar in my day
I sip
The sweet bumble
While the miners dig for victory
And the leafcutter
Snips a piece from my heart
And seals it tight
Against disaster

She sits
Atop a myrtle bush
Wingless
She cannot fly
But sends out her desire
Her future dreams
Through the unsuspecting air
Her belief
In distant generations
Borne upon the breeze
Hope of the unseen
Messaged across the barren lands
And am I powerless?

I have been mainly taking photographs of bark this year
Ancient trees: I want to paint them
Trying to capture
The exo-spectrum of other-worldly colours
Beyond any I can name.
I want to draw the patterns
Crazed scribblings of a genius
Locked away for centuries
In a tower of their mind
Slowly interpreting messages from outer space-time
Instructions for inter-conscious travel
And the creation of new life forms.
In my pictures I want to convey
How if you lean up close
You can see the topography of other worlds
Or the nerve-web of the genius-lunatic's mind
But I just don't have the skill.