My eyes search
the navy air
but are unable to
depict the
soft features of the rabbits
loping tentatively
through patchy glebe.

I wish it was spring with
bright white fruits.
Just ripe.
Not summer, because 
in the summer we cloy 
under the fat cream trees.

I want to see you,
and the wild hares,
but the twilight's 
hiding 
its secrets from us.

I
want
to see you
and the wild hares
but tonight the twilight's
hiding it's secrets
from
us.

The lantern bunting
Is looped between the street
Lamps against the sea
It is gorgeous
When you walk among them
And see
The dusk
When horizons
of ultramarine and seaweed
collide with cantaloupe and dusty red and honey .

I'm sat in a pearl 
on your lips
Mouthing sweet hymns
Of the lemon pips
That you spit from your lips
 
I'm stood in ruby
In your hair
Hearing bitter chorals 
of beetroot stalks
That you hang from your ear.

I'm struck in amethyst 
Through your pupil
Tasting great lilacs
And smelling supple, 
Subtle lavender.

It's annoying 
That I write fullest
As the moon is breaking
At midnight noon
And when the stars
Fleck a paintbrush sky.

Annoying because
I want to be 
dreaming
In beaming
sun dials and
Marshmallow clouds
Which swallow me up 
Into a rosy pearl.

Annoying because,
Just as I do with the words,
I want to escape the day
Which I can't handle and 
ramble 
in happy
Nothing.

But this
form of
Escapism
makes me sleepy 
and the creeping,
Inescapable day
Ever more... difficult

The guilt is so great
it's gilt in gold.
It shouldn't be.
But my gilded guilt 
was gilt in gold by me.

Down the aisle of
dandelion clocks
we stroll,

Copse's line our quiet 
lane and thrushes 
flit between them.

All that can be heard 
is the soft thrum 
of their wings behind the veil 
of thistle.

A train of mist 
follows the missed 
lace daisies latticed into a thousand spiderwebs and

The Grass gloved 
in due teary dew 
follows us.

I wish
It were Christmas 
Because I love the frenzy
And excuses it brings.

It's a beautiful 
Excuse to not do 
The ******* things 
In life that we spend 
Our lives doing.

The fairy lights 
Entwined in the trees
Cross continents 
With the buzz
of electricity.

I wish it were 
Christmas because
It brings the beautiful 
Excuse to love
Extravagantly. 

Just as we love
The icy daisies
Of spring I love
The warm branches 
Of bare Christmas Trees

I wish it were Christmas
Because I want to 
Hang the rosewood
Baubles round 
And see the glitter of sequin
Bunting strung happily
About the bedrooms.

I love the beautiful 
Excuses brought
In the gifts bought 
And how love is sieved 
Through in the snow.

Milk
   and
      Honey
gamble away the

t
i
m
e.
In a y e a r we will fl            y
into the s    a and
                e

s    o      a        r over your smile.
Nobody speak.

This
is
just
another

day in Spite.
         a
       r   n
In F.      ce

Shall we
             sow
       ee
the s  ds of your t   i  m e?
my time?
its\                   /time.
     been a long

Milk
         and
                 Honey
  a   b  e
g  m  l        away our t        ime.
Maybe

in
a year
or so. I
wont want the grass
to grow.
Because

it w-o-n't allow

           s        e
your    m   l        to     s   o     a    r.
                i

Honeyed icing-sugar
sun melts the snow caps
on the mountains
hair and grates the tough
green, soft

In Caramel pastures,
In sunken hills,
Under the seaweed,
Cowslips grow,
With rubied spotted
Ladies crawling up blades,
And the bumbles rumbled
buzz, a continuous growl,
Sways the floating gold.

The dark spider darts
Spearing crumpled
Flies in its silken steel
Thread. Thread which sparkles
amid the Bronze knives 
which spear it too.

November dazzles
In its mundanity.
The month between the
Russet autumn and blue winter.
Skeletal leaves
on the lyre are strung
In azure frosts
in emerald forests
and encrusted with rubies.
Novembers reclines in its throne.
In a minute,
a minute or so
It will slip to salt
and December's long
bequeathed chorus will begin
And so I will savour
these few shining seconds
a little longer.

I love the quick ***** of china cutlery when I close the plastic dishwasher

And the comforting sizzle
of the butter, which sun bursts
in the pan, as you are frying our dinner.

I love the way you say 'Nah'
and the way
my heart's pace 
Increases at your sight.

I love the way the steamy light
makes shapes and shadows
on your face
as we lie together on grass.

I love the slam
of the front door after a rain day
and the lock
of our eyes
in the hall way.

I love mundane high croak 
of the curtains
when I peal
them back as if I am 
opening my eyes 
for the first time. 

Opening to see you;
China cutlery, 
butter,
my steamy light, 
and rain.

The wild blackberry
plume bursts,
effervescent under briar
and brambles,
brilliant indigo and magenta prior.

We picked the posy
and sweet fruits
which scalloped along the ditch
until our baskets were full and rich.

The bronzey leaves quiver gently
but do not fall
however thick thorns plenty
tear our long skirts
and scratch our pasty legs.

Stained with dirt
And blood and mud
We skip home through thyme.
Through our childhood as
The blackbirds caw.

In bed together we drank dank methylated spirits 
as your hot water bottle,
my one last reminder of you,
cools to a 
carcass

My heady heart hurts
because I miss you
however I know
you are probably happy
and just a few hours away,
although I will have to
endure several months without hearing the quick stomp
of your feet
up the stairway.

Salty mess is laminated 
in hard rime
whilst the moth ribbons
like a broken lasso 
over the bathroom tiles.

In your letters 
the handwriting conveys 
your shaking vulnerability
in the fog.

The rime and 
The grapefruit soap 
and lye solder your calico dress in blisters
With cascading Tempera over your chest

Along the globe 
of your eye, camel eyelashes
powdered skinny 
with make up shower with sadness then close in drug dry desperation.

Your legs 
are dolphins enthroned 
in scarlet 
with grazes and gazes grace them with concern.

Wishful butterflies
startle the wistful
rain in June.

Garnet spottings
on their silken wings decry
the wet pellets
which scatter the grass in glass.

The mallard sighs a sweet
hymn and candles
smoke down from the clouds with sun rays which pay in gold for all things great.

Dragon flies
across khaki swirls of pond hover
and dip with the rush of the thrush's song.

Flowers huddle in the puddles after the monsoon
but soon
their proud stems will bend and weep tears of sap for the summers end.

The burning flowers underline the sunset and 
Dash before the fire (k)night catches them.
Ripe berries cheaply
tremble 
but hopefully their vitality won't burst the pulp pulsating
beneath.

Crumbling flowers
crumb the floor
And Prisms of catching silver refract rose quartz and petal
and crimson
dust.

Bejewelled in Scarlet,
the air,
as the (k)night approaches, grows colder,
Unsure of whether he will bring
solace or strife.

In his chariot
he flies faster than the bees which buzzed around the fruit flutes
in the morning and among the trumpeting bluebells.

Stars fleck the (k)night
like freckles
and the milky ways resins stain his spouting steams lovely. 

The (k)nights kind onyx reaches his crescendo and the floating moon danced drowsily through the cloud's spiralled tendrils

Which diminish as dawn
approaches
so their Tentilcles
droop to crinkled tissue paper sheathed in pink.

And so the (k)night
rides on into
The frivolous sunrise.
The lowing, glossy calves
in sage beside the ***** fields
cast a beloved ambience 

As though
we are safe
in the knowledge
that the sky will remain
forever
topaz and the leaves
forever emerald.

You cry
for the lost lands of ice
and cry
for the wounded
and the searching.

You cry for yourself,
selfishly,
some will say.

You cry for the fact
that you cry for you,
and cry
for that fact too.

You cry
that the brave
don't cry, though
some would say
they do.

And when you've
stopped
crying and
the rushes have crept
high along the brook,
you cry
that you are older.

The coffee stain
would not come off
the wall, dear, when i scrubbed
it only the peeling wallpaper
came off in my hand.

It flaked down like
snow onto our rug.
Do you remember, darling,
when we bought that rug,
it was an old place
in Clapham with
threadbare
walls and the old man smoking
a pipe asked if we were together.

We didn't know what to tell him,
babe, but when you asked me
the other day
where I had put the
lost keys I thought of us.
They have been lost
a few years now,

We lost the keys somewhere
incomprehensible
and I cannot get in.

The coffee stain will not
come off the wall, dear.

Delightful march
breathes in on the sound of the swallows
chirp, and in the pungent scent of lemonade.

Daffodils brave the curtain call
and splash in yellow fountains which
powder the grass canary
and rich caramel.

Boughs of cherry trees burst
once more with indulgent,
fatuous blossoms of sugared coral,

Their marbled paper florets billow
in the gusts rising and falling like
the flocks of starlings.

The future is close, wide and happy.

Vivid forget me nots feign sleep,
their tired eyes tinged pink.
The soap and chlorine
at Lyme Regis bay
doth stand to make me think

About the way the rushes grow
and what lurks amount the reeds,
what gently dazzles
behind closed doors
and what we doth concede.

Is the laurel leaf unfathomable?
Is nature that way too?
For I feel that I don't understand
what every body seems to.

The humbled bumbles rumbled buzz
Satin saints upon our door
We wonder what was here,  
And what was there before.

The streaming stained glass
waterfalls, were they always there?
The sickled moon stands amorous,
clotted clouds about his hair.

Stately sit the beaded stars
in a wash of sky,

And still I sit, Still I sit,
Sit and wonder why.

The rain
slops upon
the concrete,
washing.

It washes
away what we
cannot see
and sloshes
the ground
in merriment.

I hear it
drench
the toughened
soul and
soften the
pine.

The drumming
hum of rain
on the sill
sends
slumber
to even
the restless.

And the soft
lustre
after a fall
in which
the world
sparkles,
causes
even the hardest
hearts to glow
gold.

February is brighter.
It's pale blue
aura juxtaposes
the deep purple
of January.

It stutters
in, reminding us
that the adamant doors
of winter have been closed
to ajar.

Only the thin confetti
of snow now lines
the streets in
it's final celebration.

Blue smoke from the slates
thaw the crystals
and the bluebirds
have returned
to the sycamore tree.

O' what sadness comes
with January.
After all the Christmas bells
have rung their final
tune
and New Year has been
cried with united hints
of regret,
a melancholy air
falls.

Maybe it is the perpetual
fear of man,
of beginnings
and the sense
of our winged lives
flying by while we pray
our oars will take us
somewhere brighter.

Or perhaps I am being
pseudo profound

Though don't you get
a summing sense of January
in the Christmas tree?

It leans bare, sadly against
your house while the
fairy lights
are packed away
into cardboard boxes

Cinnamon peppers
the rooftops in December
and the shattered
whispers over the hills.

It makes you sneeze
and your fingers
freeze
which causes
evermore solace
with the warming fumes
of myrrh.

The bubbles
which circle the edge
of your tea, darling,
pop on your nose
as the steam rises

we sit in rose,
while outside
the horizon is smudged
with ash, and coal
and dirt.

Blueberry bluebells
sing, imperceptibly
sighing
against a backdrop of
quiet cerulean.

You know
it is Spring when
their hazy grasses
sprout beautifully
thick in the blades
between the primrose,
and when the sun
infuses shafts
of bronze to the lilac
through the giant
ash's baby
leaves.

The dull leaves
cry and crackle as
the sharp winds strains
their stalks.

They flutter through
the wayward wood
like the ever searching cuckoos.

Ochre, the sad oak gleams, barer
in the morning rays.

Diamond frost melts once more
into the crisp leaves which,
from crunchy embers, soften
as they drench

Satin turns to pumpkin
and mahogany
as melancholic
November approaches.

Tinctures of orange beam around
the stuffy air

Every thing is still,
thick,
and dark emerald

The suns yoke at high noon
casts a fiery shade
over vast valleys
rolling into eternity

The roses wilt as they bake,
crisping under the ever glorious
rays, creeping from vermilion
to chocolate.

The nightingale gives way
to the ruddy dawn and foam blooms
overhead among the early watercolour
skies.

I hear a blue-*** (or robin) whistling it's tune
through the bulbs which rise bouncing
from the rippling sea of soil,
growing in seamless swathes beneath
the leaves silken pink.

The sun dapples through, reflecting
a rosy hue into the glass
dew drops fast melting
into the thirsty earth, and peeps
over the treetops before
gradually bowing his glinting head.

Old daffodils turn russet
in the golden day
and wrinkle
as the clouds blush.

Pearl swans shatter
the ice,
and glide swiftly through the
stars sparkling
on the mirror lake.
Twilight falls to the night
and the air
creates glistening
twisted crystals which climb
up the trees and freeze
the antique summer remnants.
The spindled sprigs of silver
birches drape their lustre
wantonly, forming long
ripples in a lengthy cascade.
Then the darkness retreats as
the pale blue haze of dawn approaches
where the robin's breath
sighs tangibly on the air.