It's 5:11am. A pretty time.
The street lights outside, in my dipped  valley lane,
glow orange against the soft, warm, gloomy shades of morn.
The pretty pitter-patter of rain I can
hear on the roof is adorning the bluebells in crystals which will twinkle when the wild wide world wakes.

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.

Little droplets of green
speckle the woods.
High tinkling chirps is all I can hear.
Mossy bracken cobwebs the ground
and the puddles ripple as I trudge.

Golden shawls envelope
flushing, blending fabrics
which billow 
under the waxen blackbird's
silky braided feathers.
Heaven's vault, a celestial sphere of blue yonder,
a swirling palette of oils
suffusing and dancing,
wrapping their ringlets
into one thousand spirals
which signet shadows onto the 
slender impressions in the sog.
Illuminous, voluminous salmon
bleaches blushing black tissue
to pale primrose promising the cobalt then marrying to aquamarine.
Stained glass fingers barely protruding from aurelian pews.

Silent stillness.
Emeralds hang from the treetops,
glinting in milky rays of
a peeping sun.
Juicy buds gather,
tinkling birdsong amidst
the newborn canopy.
White sea-foam of
elderflower and meadowsweet
spray the grassy banks.

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.

Pretty soon the conkers would be falling, she could already see their
plump, cherubim bodies
spiked and dangling
like baubles,
or those underwater bombs,
from the oak leaves,
hanging limp.

Autumn trudgings lurk the air
Searching for a soul to bare
Their weight upon, so heavy
They break from trees in heady
Harmony, brown and sog
Yet crisp in the fog
mist mornings which creep
Into road as an early sun peeps
Above our golden horizon folding into
Faded merry-go- round and blue.
Autumn days are fairly sad
As you wait for dormant trees to sag
And groan
As their coverlets are blown
Onto the soft down
Of concrete frown.
These are the autumn days to me
Brown, melancholy, mahogany.

Huge thorny sweet chestnuts bloom
As blackberries wither on the briar
Lightly dusted in silver and sagging
Off the stalks.
The path lined with oak and bramble.
Wonderful hues of brown and gold
Are now littered against green.
The air is cool and moist
As autumn gathers around.

I dimly wonder
why my eyes are filling
up yet again like 
hot bath tubs
which steam over 
before evaporating
into mist on the mirror.

Golden calm flows through me as the glittered dragonfly's frame and fairy wings buzz over pooled Monet oil.

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.

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.

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.

I swirl the loose skin
of my forehead like the swirls
of stars, in weariness of the world.
My lashes beaded with drops,
from the shower that I was to tired
to dry, blur my vision like the floating boat clouds which blur
the moon to a
wisp
of smoke.
I lie, wet in my towel uncaring that
my body is forming a silhouette
of shadowed dampness on
my bed.

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.

It feels nice to 
Finally have tears 
Fall;
After weeks of
Borderline crying 
But 
Frustratingly nothing
Coming.
Salty tears
Staining my cheeks
Dribbling,
Spilling,
Running from 
My lashes
Feels free.

Getting goose bumps at the brush of new
leaves gushing together on a warm wind.
The soft crunch of grass underfoot
Like the pad of foot on snow.
A mustard brown duck waddles towards me, his comrade in tow,
over daisies snow dropped on grass.

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

5 am in mid July
and the sun is raising
golden trails in sky
and in the pools, following the
golden signet's flaming
vapour trails which, in polka-
dotted summer spawn, calm 
the water's satin, rippled peaks. 
Subsiding and gliding
into the stillness of emerald pond.
The signets move to the glistening
side of the river bank,
shafts of light catching
the lens forging ghostly 
golden sickles
which lengthen
amongst the dust hovering
aglow above silver cove 
and English lagoon.

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 to the deep south
I trudge
down through the snow
with the pink,
pink clouds
scattering their
effervescence 
over spangled, darkened
farms and hay bales.
Across early orange
styles and frosted
footprints, into
fielded horizons.

Think of your favourite place.
I think mine would be the grassy downs
Where you’ll see a kestrel hovering,
Where I’m guaranteed an hour of peace,
Where in summer dandelion clocks
Sway silhouetted against
A golden sun.
Where I’ll be home.

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.

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.

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

Tea stained blotches
Slowly spread across
thick green leaves
as July is pulled into
August. Fat blackberries
Are scattered into hedgerows of
Cow parsley.
Brambles reach out their forked
Fingers and nettles swallow the pathways.
I am looking forward to autumn
When I am no longer in a busy emerald city
But instead in cool quiet
Trudging through golden bracken.

Hot, quiet and still days of June.
The air hangs and lingers,
Heat swirling creating bright
Beads of dew, popping up from your
Skin like little flowers or the
Tall grasses that curl towards the sun.

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.

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.

I instagram 
Your heart on the wall
And let the love stew.
Materialistic love
Of cupboards and
vermillion hue.

Sickly sensuous, the tree's burning branches twisting towards the frosted eternal ceiling, sunken hollows and curved swings are fragilely bound by frayed roots which grow by day under cheerful sundials reflecting the sky's chiffon ripples.
Joining the trees bowing branches were spidery threads scalloped between the mosaic webbings of wooden latticework; 
The odd turtle dove getting caught momentairily in the silver embroidery and cooing in alarm, before cooling under the star-shine.
Amorphous, brushed clouds rolled in rhetorical significance unknowing of what power the wind holds,
whilst black sac ravens drifted aimlessly down the purple road like the dry tumbleweed.

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.

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.

Feel like my life is when you're driving on the motorway, everything is grey and the same and there. And you occasionally smile and people in other cars but you can't reach them, and you're meant to be on the way to somewhere but it feels like you'll never reach it.

This is Mrs Unknown.
She likes to roam
the rainbow
at night
or in her dreams
And fly with her razor fingers
splayed like the falling stars 
whos dust cascades
from the Heavens
into her fried egg eyes.
She likes to ballet
dance across the unwinding
circled junctions, like the moon, and
Sing song while her trainers jog
in rhythm to the bells and belts of starlight.

The fish jumped out of it's tank 
this morning. It was a shock to 
see the empty bowl and hear
my gasp as I saw its sticky 
body, wet on the counter.
It was oddly poetic.
that's the second fish I've had 
jump out of its tank.
I don't understand
how it mustered the energy.
Maybe it was a suicidal 
fish, if fish can experience those
emotions?  
I treated it alright though.
Maybe it was sick
of being trapped in a glass
life and wanted freedom even
if the price was death.

The silver
Birch trees flaunt
Their glitz as I 
Stroll through 
Deep pearl 
And sand
Pebbles

Gorgeous green
Mansions swirl
Around and
Blackbirds pick
Seeds from 
The posy bunches
And sparkled
Grass.

I pass a 
Pink butterfly house 
With large Daisy 
Heads protruding from
The diamond fencing.

The next house, a rather
Pretentious 'Cordillera',
Sounds like a disease.
A farm gate shields 
4 by 4s and I'm 
Now passing the weird
House with the crocodile
And gorilla and 
Coloured Cow 
And dog statues.

Coming to the
End of the lane
Of silver I pass
'Lane end'
Cottage with its viney
Stature and freshly 
Manicured front lawn. 
High cube hedges forming 
A pathway to the porch.

In The final 
Mansion if
Nosy passers
Have a peek you
Can see a 
Swimming pool,
Fluffy Towels draped over
The Silver pool chairs.

Flitting to 
The end of the 
Dappled birches,
Approaches
A wide country green
Covered in bunting
Bathed in buttercups.

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.

Today feels like November.
Not quite the festive November, however the post exams should-be-happiness may be causing a
small sense of internal gladness, 
but the November which
foreshadows-  Time's eerie hourglass is long and hangs in the gloom
and you wonder 
where the light is.

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.

Cold days and snowy nights
dissolve into the glow
when we come home from the sweater weather.
In from the cozy autumn day.
In from a day in which sunlight
dappled the tree's bark
like the zig-zagged icing
and french dough.
A day of mittens so only your thumbs protrude.
A day like kittens which tumble in
happiness and innocence.
Into the oak, with the window
in which tear drops
chase themselves away
down the pane and
the cool air is made hot
with cocoa frothy cream
and pumpkin.
We smoke on curled cinnamon sticks
which splinter like burnt logs
on an fire of embers.
The silhouettes of our shadows
catch on the horizon
as we watch the spectrum
scatter from the warm
cream to the dusty
pumpkin to cocoa.

My freckle flecked love
      stirs the speckled paintbrush soft, dousing it's hairs so that,
    as I pull it back,
all the bristles bend
     seamlessly, and when I let go
they ping forwards,
      smattering
a scattering of stars,
         onto snowy canvas.

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

I search for love
A definite sort of love
The feeling someone wants me
The feeling that I'm worth something
But I can't find it anywhere
So I'm getting cheap thrills
From men who don't care
As long as my short is skirt
And I'm young whatever
But I'll take it,
Use it, pretend
That their lips caress mine
Because they love me
Rather than just
Because I am there.

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.

I love this weather so much.
There's such a calm like no other 
that descends
over the quiet, big house
when the sky outside means
we have to turn on the low lamps
even though it's the middle of 
the day and
all you can hear
is distant classical music
upstairs and the soft,
crescendos of rain.
With chai and cinnamon
still on my lips
and heavy breath.

I can see sand on the watery riverbed.
Dappled grey clouds reflected ripples.
A curious swan glides over to meet me.
Winter is relinquishing it’s hold
and grey-green grass is sprouting.
Shaggy sodden crows bob their heads and
the geese are calling.

Sea foam and turquoise bubble bath
Waves crash. Or sigh on a clear day
Sigh with despondency at their monotonous lot. Maybe storms are their way of letting off steam, of screaming. High ocean froths at the mouth in anger.