Grim grey day
starts in the dark,
grumbles, glowers
shoulders hunched
Everyone in bitter agreement -
"Miserable!"
Rain driven against windows,
streaming pavements,
shoe-squelched curses
cast at baleful sky.

Travelling home at last,
raincoat defeated
tricklebacked discomfort,
Windscreen wipers ten to the dozen
under sopping sorrowful trees,
headlights strobing relentless rain

And -

Those aren't leaves.
What are they?
Tumbling across the road,
crisscrossing parabolas
of peculiar joy

Frogs!

I stop:
I have to.
The night is alive
with manic delight
as secret creatures fling caution to the wind
and bound into sight,
into frantic celebration,
unphased by cars, by foolish bipeds
who thought this planet was theirs -

Open mouthed and uninvited
I gaze, displaced and foolish
for not knowing
It is,
it is the most beautiful night
that could possibly be imagined.

Well it's funny how quickly things change
what seems certain goes fast out of range
and it's hard not to wonder just who was to blame
as if that makes a difference at all
Things get broken, that we all know
you can cry or think, 'Where should I go?'
There is always someone with a light that will show
and a heart that could cushion your fall

Here comes the cavalry, the army of friends
to judge and advise you on justified ends
to hell with the horses, to hell with the men
you're putting yourself back together again

Well there's love and there's lust and there's ***
one thing one day is not that the next
when we're not messing up well we're trying our best
it's a wonder we've lasted so long
You can fret over games that were played
and regret the mistakes that were made
but this crap from the past will just stand in your way
you've a life to be lived, right or wrong

And here comes the cavalry, the army of friends
to judge and advise you on justified ends
to hell with the horses, to hell with the men
you're putting yourself back together again

So things may be awkward here and there, now,
disapproving glances, icy stares, now
got to wonder why you'd even care, now
life is waiting

Here comes the cavalry, the army of friends
to judge and advise you on justified ends
to hell with the horses, to hell with the men
you're putting yourself back together again.

I hope one day
to write a poem
with no title
and no words
but I have a long way to go
before I'm good enough to try it

I am not wracked by doubts:
I am enlivened,
enthralled
and awakened by them.

Eulogising was a challenge
under constant bombardment
from falling masonry.
But the gathered crowd deserved the effort.
There was Honest Bob,
whose cut-price bricks
had won the tender
and built the edifice behind us.
Slick ****, the concrete king
fresh from an industrial tribunal
and ready to pay tribute.
Fat Larry, the glass magnate,
dodging the shrapnel
from his wind-shattered panes,
just like the rest of us.

I raised my voice
amidst the crash and crumble
to praise the architect.
There were those who had forgotten
the terrible designs
that had been *******
by her dogged determination,
Her clarity of vision
(here, I was interrupted
by three roof-tiles in succession,
smashing at my feet),
her strength of purpose
(nine bricks and a length of plastic guttering)
and her shining conviction.

But here, in the shadow of the teetering mass,
we could all acknowledge
her unforgettable legacy
with pride and gratitude.

Champagne, truffles,
and off we all went,
helicoptered to who knew where
happily leaving others
to clear up the mess.

What hollow, caustic foulness lies behind the neatly edged hedges,
fences, plastic window frames and glass?
Resting, waiting to be woken, scream what now must not be spoken
Blood-lust of a gutless middle class
What simple lies must needs be told in bold authoritative tones
To activate the drones and make them fight -
To know, that if the call should come they'd march to that benighted drum
And sacrifice intelligence for right?
How big a monster must be built to shoulder guilt for every creeping fear
and insecurity and loss,
Till every hip and critical disclaimant finds a reason for believing
and then carries it, across.
How many layers must be stripped to tip the wretched shreds of indecision
into morals blown apart
And harmless bigot who, at work, was tolerated with a smirk
Now drives a dirk into a stranger's heart?
Now doctor, teacher, business leader, well-respected educated man
proclaims his harmlessness anew,
Make no mistake: the quills are fine and ready as the porcupine
prepares to show what harmless beasts can do.

Icy dock
bump and knock
one gull huddles
on a cold black rock

frozen feet
driving sleet
tethered by the weather
like the landed fleet

gull spreads wings
north wind sings
rumble and a mumble
as the pub door swings

step inside
drink is tried
filling up and spilling
like the storm-surge tide

howl and din
locks you in
ice goes slicing
through your winter skin

knock them down
drink and drown
bleezin empty season
in a seaside town

A countless headed monster
rampaged through the village yesterday
smashing everything in its wake
befouling the water
and devouring my whole family
in its slathering jaws.

It really was no consolation
that it brushed its teeth afterwards.

You want this conversation
Well let's take the ******* out
You call for independence
So let's see what that's about
You're gonna need the banks for money
Gonna need the toffs for land
Well that's a kind of independence
That I just don't understand

So who are you kidding now, who are you kidding,
Nothing's going to change
With the same old queen and the same old scene
and the same old parlour games
This ain't no custody battle, you're not taking the kids to the zoo
If we don't want central government then why would we want you?

Now I find you quite convincing
when you say that things are wrong
But it seems that your solution
Is the same old same old song
And a suit in Edinburgh
Could be a suit in London town
Because you're all a million miles away
from the **** that's going down

Ah, who are you kidding now who are you kidding,
Where's the brand new dawn
It's the millionaires and the stocks and the shares
That'll keep on keepin' on
And this self-determination
Might catch you by surprise
The united states of me and my mates
Curse every flag that flies.

Ma haimmer stalled midswing,
a foot, yet, frae the nail -
frozen, useless and bizarre.

"Whit the hell?" I gasped,
tryin tae budge it.
I got my shouder ahent it, gie'd it a shove,
but nothin.  It just hung there.

Turns oot it wis installin updates.
It's a ****** screwdriver noo,
and that nail hings hauf oot the waw,
grinnin at me.

The shale abounds
above the pounding waves
with perfect snapshots
of a lost, impossible world

Images beyond the skill of sculptors,
ridged, spined and rippled
frozen in rock, of rock -
who could have guessed
how long the armour would protect?

And yet -
trilobites
who ruled the shallows
when dinosaurs were but a glint
in Pachamama's eye,
are dead, gone, passed over
in the battle for existence.

While in the boiling surf below,
the jellyfish
who still blithely ride the tides
insolently call:
"Good luck wi thae shells, boys -
"Bet yis'll be safe wi thaim!"
and disappear
in a bubble of translucent laughter.

She’s gone! The nurses came today
and carted Mother far away
to give me peace to kneel and pray
before the cross
Don’t think me harsh if I should say
she’s no great loss!

That endless screeching banshee wail
can carry on to no avail
the staff will hear but surely they’ll
not bend like me
And now I’ve peace to find the trail
to Calgary

Oh holy vision, cruelly slain
Your endless love is not in vain
I pray and understand the pain
of sacrifice
for no reward (except to reign
in Paradise).

Such selflessness I can but follow
(not like that ***** who’d lie and wallow
spit the pills she had to swallow,
curse and choke
Think yesterday would buy tomorrow -
some ******’ hope!)

Take her diploma off the wall
what it was for I can’t recall
she never needed it at all
the lazy bizzim
But come - and heed the joyful call
the Christ is risen!

We spent a day in space
because the Hendersons did it last month,
and the Jeffreys the week before that.
It was all they talked about at dinner
and their eyes sparkled
in a way I hadn't seen before.

You can pack light.
It's only a day, after all.
Maria and the kids were nervous
but I told them not to worry,
just to concentrate on the in-flight movie.
The kid in the seat behind
kept kicking my chair,
which was annoying.

To be honest
it was just like a normal flight at first,
out the window gazing
at the other shuttles coming home,
pressed into your seat
by the g-force.

But then you break through the ionosphere
and you're weightless.
It's quite cool.
Jessica got some good pictures of Earth.
I was looking at the floating stewardess, mostly.

It's one of those things, though -
you can't really appreciate it when it's happening.
You have to look back on it.
I'm pretty sure the grandeur,
the magnificence of human ingenuity
and the joy of returning to Mother Earth's comforting embrace

Will hit me any day now.
Excuse me, my phone's ringing.

Twilight falls across the bay
Soothes the worries of the day
As the shore adores the sea
Me for you and you for me

Stars appear across the sky
Whisper leaf and curlew cry
As the lock is for the key
Me for you and you for me

There is traffic, there is waste
Icy doubt and black disgrace
There are thunderclouds of fear
But they cannot touch us here
There are nightmares, there are wars
Broken hearts and slamming doors
There are phantoms of the mind
Here, we leave them all behind

Gentle darkness on the land
Beating hearts and touching hands
It's as simple as can be
Me for you, and you for me.

I will not plug in, you fools -
you may dazzle, tempt and cajole
with high tech-cessories,
interactive goggles, voice activated,
touchscreen detachment-inducers

But I will smugly refuse.

Because the information you impart,
while instantly comprehensive,
is flawed.
I will hear-see-smell my way
through this beautiful life,
truly connected
and weaving through the cloud-heads
with impunity.

Until -

composing a poem
to explain my superiority
I stumble
and break my ankle
on a jaggy branch
which moments before
a rabbit
unfettered by language
noted
and bounced effortlessly over
before merging
with the quick green undergrowth.

Well it was Tarquin's idea, actually.
It came to him after watching 'Slumdog Millionaire.'
Have you seen it?  Marvellous film.
Such resourceful people.

Anyway, we were looking at schools,
and the local comprehensive -
simply ghastly - we couldn't put Eugene through that.

But two blocks away
there's a school for the blind.
Ofsted simply raved about it.
So, we popped the old eyes out
- easy as
- and Bob's your uncle.

He starts in August.
More tea?

The baker's wife
is neither surprised nor impressed
when he brings her cakes and pastries.
The child of a joiner
can take or leave a treehouse.

But since I am not a poet,
I hope you can take these inelegant lines,
their lack of rhyme or rhythm
and their false humility
and read this in them:

After all this time
you still make me think and see
in new and unusual ways
and for that, and all else besides,
I thank you.

Thus proving
beyond all hope
that we remember nothing.

I might have been twenty
when I had this thought.
Good family, material ease -
she really should
snap out of it.

This was before
I'd ever stumbled
into fruitless darkness,
when mood and circumstance
seemed one and the same.

I thought myself magnanimous
when rather than judging
I rationalised.
"Perhaps we're hard wired
to seek problems to solve,"
I pondered,
"so where there are none,
we create them."

But now
instead of second-hand accounts
of days in bed,
ill-fated relationships
and unaccountable weeping,
I read her own words.

And I am staggered,
inspired,
by her strength
and her insight,

and by how little
we can know of each other
until we are ready
to learn.

I trained myself to hold my breath
beneath the surface of the nut-brown river
for three minutes and more.
My companions would watch
as I slipped from sight,
their own breath held as the seconds wore on.

Above and around them the riverbank was a lens
refracting a swarming jungle,
macaws paired and perfect splitting the blue,
tangles and torrents of green
and the liquid burble of oropendulas and caciques.
Why should anyone depart from this,
deliberately descend into the murk
for no more than a party-piece, a prank?

Because,
the river carried news,
the river throbbed with hidden life
it was the Andes and the ocean and all points in between
and down below the light and beauty
it was mine alone.

I sat beside myself today
surprised to see me there
I asked me what was going on
as if I really cared

I laughed at all my little jokes
I nodded and was wise
I'd seen the things that I had seen
knew the promises and lies

I sat beside myself today
I thought to pass the time
But oh my thoughts were miles away
I'd too much on my mind

Oh, let me take me by the hand
I'll be a friend to me
The greatest friend in all the land
And the greatest enemy

And when at last I knew me well
I got right up and left
But oh, the space I left behind
I felt myself bereft

I wonder if I'll meet again
I wonder if I'll try
Sometimes it seems my only friend
is me, myself and I.

You lie on your back in the meadow
the big yellow blue in your eyes
You're golden, unfolding and gath'ring
the love of the limitless sky
And there's no need to fear
that this feeling is one that will pass
As your fingers entwine
in the dandelion shimmering grass
And they're sensing a message encoded within
the language of everything
And you're searching serenely for symbols
In the breath of a butterfly's wings

Now the sunlight is scattered and shattered
by the broken grey blade at your side
And your banner is ****** and tattered
Though you cannot remember just why
And your eyelids descend
Your features are soft with a smile
You breathe out and in
with the simple regard of a child
And you know as you go that as one story ends
another one surely begins
And you're searching serenely for symbols
in the breath of a butterfly's wings

Now you've happily danced in this pattern
for as long as you care to recall
There's a tapestry tangled around you
that you've barely affected at all
And you're taking your leave
as a cloud dissipates in the sky
And you don't even ask
why a tear trickles down from your eye
Yes you cast the thought out, there is no room for doubt
when you're hearing the fat lady sing
And you're searching serenely for symbols
in the breath of a butterfly's wings

Now the sun can be gentle and loving
the sun can be angry and fierce
And it is what it is in the instant
That it glints in a dying man's tears
You go when you go
you depart from the path you create
And you know what you know
in the moment you know it's too late
In your peace and your bliss it was easy to miss
all the people who pulled on the strings
As you searched so serenely for symbols
in the breath of a butterfly's wings
As you searched so serenely for symbols
in the breath of a butterfly's wings.

We just can't make them
like this anymore.
The skill and craftsmanship
have been sacrificed
on the altar of accuracy
and machines and computers
have sterilised
the smell of hard work and love.

To make such a map
with no satellites, no certainty
meant wallowing in the mystery of the world.
In the space between knowing and supposing
there was a beauty
we may now miss, or deem unimportant.

However,
if I want to get from my house
to your grave, to pay my respects -
through the shopping malls
and bypasses,
the glass and steel towers
you could never have imagined,

I will use my sat-nav
and be grateful for it.

It's fifteen years
since I let Jack fall.
I am unforgiven
by a wife who wasn't there,
who didn't see what happened
and who will never understand.

And nor will I, of course.
That slow-motion slip
from crested cliff to vanishing
replays before my desperate eyes
each night,
and each night I am as frozen
as on that wretched day.
A harmless walk gone awry
and a family forever shattered.

He was within my reach.
Another day I would have caught him,
effortlessly.
Another day I would have walked cliffside,
keeping him to the thrift-speckled verge,
soft and safe.
Another day we would have walked a woodland trail instead.

I don't know why that day
was the day I was distracted,
the day my reflex failed me.
I don't know why my brain misfired,
conscious enough to watch in horror
but not to propel me forward.
Sometimes we catch the cup as it topples,
sometimes we watch it spill to the floor.
Moments of blissful skill
followed by moments of dumb helplessness.

It was no cup that fell that day.

To her, though, there is no general flaw.
There is no explanation in biology,
no hormone or synapse to be blamed.
There is only me.  Her husband.
Jack's father.

There are no two sides to my coin, now.
There is only the man who let him fall.
She stays: she is dutiful.
But I could catch every falling cup,
remember to lock every door,
make never another mistake,
and he will still be dead
because his father was a careless man.

Ten years before Jack fell,
I,
a cautious man, untutored in love,
saw a beautiful girl
and inexplicably threw caution to the wind.
Another day I would have turned aside.
Another day I would have stammered my invitation,
lost my nerve.
But for that mysterious moment
There would have been no Jack,
and we would never have experienced
a limitless, all consuming love
which all the pain in the universe
can never staunch
or dim.

Ah didny recognise him fae the eulogy.
The meenister'd nivver met the lad, Ah could see.
A hero?  Aye, mibbe.  Jist a name tae maist ay these fowk.
But ah kent im as a boay,
the daft wee scapegoat, ayewis in boather,
but nae real hairm in im.
He wis the lad wha'd get skelped, the noise
makkin the teacher turn is heid
jist in time tae spot im skelpin back.
Mairched tae the heidie again.
"Yir a bad lot, Barry.
Yir faither wis a bad lot too."

Puir Baz.
Da in the jile,
Ma aff her face on smack,
an him, daft, funny, doomed.
If onybody at hame had cared enough
tae keep the schuil photies,
they'd have shown a wee freckly laddie
wi a too-open grin,
year eftir year,
jersey gettin tattier,
teeth getting gappier,
still grinnin while the rest ay us
were far too cool tae smile for the camera.

Ah liked im.
Didny unnerstaun how the teachers
were sae ***** tae im.
There wis far badder boays in the year.
Ricky ****** Jackson - a nasty, sleekit wee body,
yankin ab'dy's strings.
But his da wis rich
an the teachers fawned ower im.
No Baz, though.
Cannon fodder, richt enough.
Tackin the flack fir the rest ay us.

Exactly the kind ay lad
the ******* Army thrives on.
Ah canny feel the patriotic pride,
canny picture the self-sacrifice,
the heroism.
Ah can juist see im,
daft an grinnin,
daein whit he wis tellt
an gettin killt.

Mind you,
he wis aye headin for the poppies, that yin,
One wey
or anither.

That's him away then.  So, kids,
what do we do now?
No, laddie, don't cry.  We'll find our way.
No-one will write it down,
you may be sure of that,
but no-one will be burnt alive for it -
no nation will be conquered for it -
no vacuous, rudderless culture will claim it at their convenience.

On you go now, boys,
there's work to be done.
We can't all nap under a bodhi tree when it suits us.
Here now, no tears -
here's a kiss for you both.

We'll walk this path together,
real dust rising behind us,
real pain and real joy before us
and we'll maybe find
that attachment's not such a terrible thing
after all.

She was the face of the century.
We'd all believed the age of heroes was past
but she was the real thing -
brilliant, brave beyond belief and wise,
and the planet - the whole planet -
was proud to have her as ambassador.

And when the broadcast arrived,
proof that we had spanned the solar system
and set foot on another planet,
every Earthling eye gazed, every ear strained,
so as not to miss a word.

"..."

Martian sky.  Red dust.  Second transmission.

"...
"I know...
"I know you are watching me.
"I know that this is the moment,
"the moment you have waited for.
"Seven months ago I left you.  It's hard
"to hold your breath for seven months!"

Across the globe, people laughed and gasped.

"Seven months."

A pause.

"Seven months, and enough money
"To end poverty
"across most of the Earth."

Heads were scratched.
Where was this going?

"Well, everyone, here I am.
"I can see you, you know.  A star,
"A dot in the black - that's you.
"And that dot -
"Oh, that precious, beautiful dot!"

Eyes moistened.  Friends embraced.

"Where every speck of dust is a home
"for something.
"Where even the forgotten scrapings
"Of last week's dinner
"plays host to LIFE!
"Air to breathe!
"Water to drink!
"So many, many things to love!"

Thirty two seconds of silence.

"Why did you send me here?"

Fifty three seconds of silence.

"This is hell."

And with that
she placed the camera on a tripod
stood before it
and removed her helmet.

The once fierce eyes
quickly bulged and reddened
skin puckered and peeled,
frost scorched and suffocated
lips, best known for forming momentous words
turned first blue then purple
and blood flowed freely
from her nostrils.
She slumped, fell,
knocked over the camera.

End of transmission.

The whole broadcast had lasted just seven minutes.

She was already dead by the time we heard the first word.

Remembrance in November grows repellent
each year we rob it further of its sense
by hunting down objectors to compel them
to stand in line or cause a grave offense.
No private contemplation or reflection
when strident shrieks of nationhood prevail
Un-poppied collars count as insurrection
a slight to every brave, red-blooded male.
Division, thumping drums and waving banners
the media wades in with guns ablaze
forgetful of respect, or simple manners –
that’s not how we conduct ourselves these days
If this is what our fallen heroes wanted
I wonder why the cenotaph is haunted.

We cannot know what sent the soldiers hither
or claim the fallen courage of the fight
think boys who marched to foreign fields together
were simple symbols drawn in black and white
If we could rise above the spite and chatter
We’d find unbordered bonds and understand
that shells and bullets lacked the strength to shatter
the looking glass that straddled no man’s land
From timid chaps to lunatic berserkers
we canonise the men who heard the call
if wives had had the power to shoot deserters
there never would have been a war  at all.
Let’s render restless spirits more forgiving:
to honour best the dead, honour the living.

A singer died
when he and I
were twenty five.
I think I found out
some weeks later,
playing his album to a friend.
"He's the one that died, isn't he?
Fell out a window?"

I was sorry
but unaffected.
I'd seen him on T.V.,
thought he sounded
a bit like me,
bought the CD.

Sixteen years on
I am pummelled with nostalgia
for a blithely immortal age.
My band broke up,
reformed, broke up,
I got married, had kids
became a teacher

But he sits
in the impregnable fortress of maybe,
always smiling,
twenty five
till the sun swallows the earth.

Marie, I remember the last time we met
it was right here in Paris and you were upset
by a big, burly Frenchman whose insolent tone
had reminded you how far you were from your home
"Now don't worry, darling," I said with a smile,
"We need only look out for ourselves for a while!"
But you angrily told me our love was a goner
unless I turned round and defended your honour.

Well the Frenchman in question was not a small man
he'd a dangerous eye and piratical tan
my nerve sprang a leak with no sign of a plumber
I started to shake like an aspen in summer
"No, no," I suggested, " - a coffee, and then
"We could stroll arm in arm on the banks of the Seine!"
But you stood and you shouted, demanding to see
how seriously you mattered to me
and shaking with rage you began to aver
I was less of a man than the nearest Pierre,
or Jean-Paul or Jean-Charles, or Pepe, or Jacques
you threatened to leave me and never come back
Well there's only so much that a coward can take
so I ******* up my courage and made my mistake.

I could see the man's back as he moved down the street
and I fondly imagined he beat his retreat
so I followed him down there to make the man see
what becomes of the ones who insult my Marie
But the colour drained from the Parisian crowds,
they seemed to be wearing funereal shrowds
I moved in slow-motion, caught the man's shoulder
He swung round and punched with a fist like a boulder
Planets and satellites buzzed round my head
then he danced on my rib-cage and left me for dead
But through the concussion I managed to see
You were standing beside him and laughing at me
Then taking his mutton-shaped fist in your arm
you helped him avoid an approaching gendarme
As darkness descended I managed to cry,
"Oh Marie, gay Paree will not be where I will die!"

Well it's taken me several years to recover
but I've traced you right back here, my treacherous lover
You're taking communion, don't know where I am
But I'm hunched at the back of the great Notre Dame,
And you cannot see me, but I can see you,
I'm not even sure what it is I will do,
but one thing is certain - revenge will be sweet,
You'll know how it feels to be left in the street
Losing consciousness under Parisian skies,
Oh Marie, gay Paree is the place where you will die!

So I creep up the aisle, approaching the altar,
my hands do not tremble, my steps do not falter
Clearing my throat, but before I can speak,
You spin on your heel and you wallop my cheek
where a stain starts to grow like the stain in the glass
And I stagger backwards and land on my ***
This cannot be happening, how could you attack?
You hit me again and I'm back on my back,
Now standing above me, a gleam in your eye
Oh Marie, gay Paree,
Oh Marie gay Paree is the place where I will ........

A certain quiet glinting in the corner of my eye
a prickle-necked foreboding in a sullen winter sky
An ultrasonic wavelength tuned to sorrow and to fear
comes manifest, projected through my wish to bring it near
A pressure change, a slamming door, a thought of things undone
comes seeping through the paintwork for a bit of spectral fun

And I can sit complacently and watch the show unfold
My perfect explanations make me curious and bold
I wonder how my brain will paint this misty-coloured scene
What face will fly from memory where no face should have been
I have no need for magic or for spirits of the dead
But seek the secret passages that twine within my head

And here it comes, as if on cue, parading through the wall
(A weaker man than me would think his wisdom rather small)
The wraith is clothed in folklore, stepping past without a glance
And I would laugh it off but for one ghastly circumstance:
For all my knowledge, nothing helps the second that I see
That solid as I feel, this ghost
                                                     does not
                                                                ­       believe
                                                                ­                      in me.

Sloshing round the bay road
through the foot-deep potholes,
glorying in the rain-lashed dark
as the wind made the phone-lines sing

I saw him.  Brown, dishevelled, shivering -
a leveret, bamboozled by torchlight
diminished in his dripping fur,
wild eyes wide and startled.

Trying to leap aside, he caught the fence,
rebounded, tried again,
landing this time in a muddy sheuch,
a wired brown ball of panic.

"You'll not last long in this, wee man,"
I muttered, scooping him up,
dropping him into the deep dark pocket
of my raincoat.

Home we went, where two boys waited.
I quickened my pace, eager
to be the father bearing surprises,
to widen the cast-list of this adventure.

We dried him off, the boys enchanted.
He unfolded.  He raised his head.
He bounded round the kitchen
on impossible elastic legs.

"Let's call him Charlie!" cried Robin,
and we did.  
Charlie the Hare.
Alien, crazy, impatient.

When the rain eased
and Charlie was dry,
I put him back in my pocket
for the journey round the bay.

The last I saw of him
he was bounding out of sight
indifferent to the interlude
engaged in other things.

Those wild eyes that looked beyond
had no place in a cosy kitchen
this was no pet, no human companion
there was no understanding

But every time we see a hare,
the boys say, "I wonder if that's Charlie!"
and it glows against the backdrop
of nature's unfathomable canvas.

I created a ray to save the world.
We had come too far,
had lost ourselves, it seemed to me
and we were taking the Earth along with us
into the abyss.

Too much knowledge: too much thought.
We needed to go back.
And so I created the Great Devolver Ray
and stood, trembling, by the trigger.

This would return us
to our basest animal selves.
Would tune us perfectly into Nature,
re-thread us into the fabric of Creation
destroy the wall between Natural and Unnatural.

Pure uncorrupted survival: nothing more.

And so I stood, on the brink,
unsure as all great revolutionaries must be,
put my hand in place,
and pushed.

And the ray burst forth
and we were transformed
into the pure ******* creatures that Life demanded.

And absolutely nothing changed
at all.

The frantic crackling log
sends forth a chemical lament,
filling the room with ghostly branches,
spectral sunlit needles
against blue skies
the laugh and chatter of us as children,
hiding and seeking from trunk to trunk
and climbing, resin scented,
to where the blue **** perch and squabble.
This dying breath
contains the whole life
and we sit, breathing it in,
remembering.

I was always told to stay away from the street
Keep myself protected, redirecting my feet
The traffic rushing past would **** me deader than dead,
that's what the old folks said
But little did I know that by avoiding the cars
I wandered in the path of something badder by far
Keeping to the fences and the gardens to play
That made me easy prey
For the houses, on the prowl
The houses, on the prowl
The windows, are a hungry scowl
And the doors are jaws to swallow you down

Ever seen a picture of a venus-trapped fly?
Happy as a clam as if it's ready to die
Sucker for the honey never knowing it's bait
Until it's far too late
Well comfort and protection are what houses pretend
A welcome sanctuary and a fabulous friend
We lavish love upon them like they're part of ourselves
Until there's nothing else
But the houses, on the prowl
The houses, on the prowl
The windows, are a hungry scowl
And the doors are jaws to swallow you down

People at the window, haunted and confused
Something's got them prisoner, and it'll never let them loose

I know that you will think it's just a travellers' tale
Like Jonah or Gepetto in the guts of a whale
But they were brought salvation from the soul of the sea
And that's never come to me
Helplessly protesting at the ribs of the room
Quietly digesting in a wallpaper tomb
It's hard and getting harder to get out of the door
And the world don't care no more.

The year the boys got their trampoline
All Dad got was a new shirt.
A nice one, mind - well made and warm.
He had it on as he put the trampoline together
(despite Mum's advice regarding working in new clothes)
and he was glad of its warmth as the boys
had their maiden bounce,
laughter making clouds
in the cold December air.

Tatty now, old and worn
in fifteen years that lasted a week, or less,
it's the same shirt keeping him warm
as he takes the trampoline apart
in the quiet, empty garden.

On a lip-crack Wednesday morning
with a mind as dry as ice
my cold Mojave fingers
make it difficult to write
and the radio is laying
sentimental sediment
on a limestone lack of lustre
that's as solid as cement
and a sad Sahara sunrise
bakes a barren riverbed
where the trickled inspiration
once went gushing through my head
and I point a brittle finger
at the unrelenting sky
and I ask it why?

Then you
dawn
upon
my memory and

My heart becomes a waterfall
cascading through my very soul
refresh the butterflies that fly
in coloured clouds below
And if you'll take me, I will grow
I will grow

I recall a conversation
from a few years down the line
one voice isn't shouting
but the other one is mine
laying words like sandbags
against the battlements
making promises which, made,
cannot be made again
I was sure of something
but my certainty was wrong
now I'm sure of something else
I can't tell for how long
I point that brittle finger
at the unrelenting sky
and ask it why?

Then you
dawn
upon
my memory and

My heart becomes a waterfall
cascading through my very soul
refresh the butterflies that fly
in coloured clouds below
and if you'll take me I will grow
If you'll take me I will grow
If you'll take me I will grow
I will grow.

Midwinter approaches.
You'd barely know it.
Galloway's soft murky skies,
Low clouds born of mudflat and peat,
don't waken the sparkling frost in me

A sudden unexpected pang
for the cut-glass winters of Aberdeen,
skies as clear as no sky at all
and the Dee all poised and crystal
descends upon me in the thick southwest smir

And I long to crunch along the riverbank
with my brother in the frost,
laughter-born clouds
dissipating in the hawthorn branches,
blackbirds startling
in the ice-bound undergrowth -
deep pink sun bursting and bleeding
across the wide blue horizon.

I could return -
follow the waxwings
reclaim my winter home
but I won't -
instead,
I'll cast a glance
of sparkling northern granite
across the fields and mulch,
see if I can clear these skies
and freeze this other Dee

And build myself a fresh white landscape
as crisp
and clear
as memory.

Rebellion has many paths
to tempt unwitting youth
and none of them are new at all
to tell the sorry truth
Though every would-be anarchist
would wish it left unsaid
John Harrow makes the signposts
with a top-hat on his head

When picketing the fellowship
a friend of mine declared
"You have to know your enemy
"To have him running scared!"
dismantling the sacred text
he'd bought the day before
for every penny that he owned
from Harrow's Bible store

The scarlet headed lyricist
sent shockwaves through the nation
shattering taboos
and knocking lumps from the foundation
But Harrow wasn't shaken
by this fiercely blazing star -
he'd trained the stylist, named the songs
and sold him his guitar

A buzz is running through the streets
as people take them back
and occupy the land
in global pacifist attack
But wait - before you celebrate
the fall of governments
With factories in Vietnam
John Harrow makes the tents

Cos protest has its limits
the establishment agrees
we're free to go these tested routes
like window-bumping bees
You make your point, you go back home
another day will pass
and half-full or half-empty
Mr. Harrow is the glass

He had never realised
that everything was moving
until it stopped

One pill
and the joyous ramshackle journey
dug claws into the soil
and froze

and turned

The things he had known as trees
began to bend
to curl towards him
gnarled eyes glaring,
tendrils groping

The dog, his faithful companion
rose painfully on two legs
grew shoulders, arms
bared fangs and snarled

Rocks rose from snoring mountains
to grind their ancient jaws at him
and the sea folded in on itself
in disgust

Paralysed he stared
as the sky climbed down
defeated
and the sun pulled back
its shining mask
to show the grinning, vengeful skull beneath

Nothing could touch him
but all could see him
exposed, brutal, foolish, ridiculous
and desperate, desperate

for death.

Three travellers
are walking side by side.
Says the first:
"This path is long and weary,
and my soul sickens
with every step.
All it shows us
is misery, disease, corruption and death.
This is the path of the ******!"

Says the second:
"No, my friend, you are wrong!
This path guides
my every golden step.
It draws me further
into the dazzling wonder
of this impossible world
and pulls me forward
with the promise of beautiful new horizons.
This path is truly blessed!"

Says the third:
"There is no path."

The first
and the second
are unmoved, however

For there is no third traveller.

"Haw!  You!  Come back here!
Dinny walk aff while ah'm talkin ti ye!
Didjiz no ken we won a fight
a mere sivvin hunner year ago?
Are ye no impressed?"

Flower o' ****** Scotland.
Fighting and dying
for a wee bit hill and glen.
When will we see the like?
Every ****** day
an' Ah'm ******* seek o't.

See when we start lovin and livin
fur a wee bit hill and glen?
Then Ah'll get tae ma feet
an sing.

Beneath our bruised and blistered feet
there comes a strange unearthly beat,
a pulse beneath our sad complaints
about how things were what they ain't
how everything has gone to hell
and how we got here none can tell
how kids ain't got no **** respect
how there's no rule they won't reject
and folks ain't safe now in their beds;
this beat continues, fractures, spreads
adds rhythms to the observation
that mankind's headed for damnation
the whole confounded human race
is ragged, cracked, a sad disgrace
(not like when we were being raised
our folks knew better, heav'n be praised
and we had boundaries, and grit,
and cross those lines and you'd get hit!)
And maybe we would stop lamenting
but this relentless pulse is venting
every bitter ball of bile
and tapping, tapping all the while
and speeding up in frenzied glee
until we all can plainly see
that, spinning in a beat-bound haze
we're longing for the GOOD OLD DAYS!
When Earth was young and pure and clean
and folks were kind, not cold and mean
and guided by self interest -
we used to see them at their best!
And click and tap and snap and clatter
comes rising from the mud and litter
And we're so caught in this discourse
we have no time to seek its source.
But down and down, beneath the soil
encased in bedrock black as oil
grinning to a tune they know,
the rhythm section's all a-glow
the skeletons of murdered daughters
of babies born and swiftly slaughtered
vagabonds and martyrs who
were butchered for a point of view
and soldiers, soldiers, cold battalions
knocked by maces off their stallions
to die dishonoured and forgotten
and lie until their bones were rotten
lost amongst the brittle league
of those who toppled to the plague
They're all awake and keeping time
to our pathetic little rhyme
and clacking carpals and phalanges
grind the message: "nothing changes!"
and not one ragged scrap of bone,
no semi-fossil all alone
can summon any memory
of when things were how they should be

So maybe I will stop the dance
and note the happy circumstance
that I am safe and well and free
I like my friends and they like me
and while injustice still exists
I'm not about to slit my wrists
No-one makes a bright tomorrow
by gazing backwards filled with sorrow
and here and now, I do aver -
I'm glad things aren't the way they were.

From horizon to horizon
stretch flowers
waving, trumpetting
refracting brazenly, dazzling

as children, blinded,
fumble through,
coughing on pollen
drowning in nectar
deafened by the buzz of fat, sated insects

brutally and thoughtlessly robbed of the chance
to find the startling beauty
of the solitary blossom
on the wasteland.

I'll trawl the squalor, if you like,
stick blinkers on to hide the fact
that my life has so far been a charmed one.

I can conjure a face,
small, forgotten
black against a duststorm sky -
There's your poverty for you,
And yes, I was there

And sure, I smelt the days old sweat
and can remember hunger as a curiosity
The boy's name is known to me
but I won't share it

Because he was real
but I missed his reality
and I have no right to it.
***** hands notwithstanding
I was just a tourist,
a passing mote of dust
in his drought-stricken life.

I was there for me
collecting picturesque snapshots
which would inform my return
to an undeserved comfort
(but only slightly).

To say he was important,
totemic, symbolic,
is false.
I remember him, that's all -

My boys,
my clean, happy,
here-now boys
eclipse that shadow in every respect.
An honourable assertion
only in that it is true;
and a brief regret that I made no contact
flickers out before
a blaze of contentment,
a bedrock of good fortune
with little to offer
the vicarious seeker
of hard-won wisdom.

"Dad!  DAD!"
The cry shakes the night
Shakes sleep from his father's eyes,
and spirits him to his side.

Sweating and trembling the boy points
to the corner of the room.
"There," he whispers, "right there!"

The father turns, befuddled, impatient
and sees nothing.
"You're okay.  It was a bad dream.
Lie down.
Night
             night."

But it wasn't a bad dream.
In the corner of the room
is a huge, glowing
                                       egg.
Light pulses from it
in living waves,
and his father must be blind to miss it.

Night after night.
"It's nothing.
Go back to sleep."

But night after night
the egg gets bigger,
and dad
               gets
                        smaller.

Grateful
for the way
you loosened my tongue
unlocked the longing
let nature, unfettered,
spill forth

For the keys
to the dance floor,
the illusion
of manhood -
the sing-songs,
punch-ups,
lock-ups
and lovers

But that part played,
what's left
is loveless.
You weigh on my mind,
you get in the way,
you pin my arms
and force your way in

My boys are watching.
You'd have them think
this was normal, natural -
you're waiting
with your glistening invitation
to take them down
this perilous path

Wasted
days wasted
they watch.
I wish
myself washed
of this witchcraft.

I'll raise a glass
in this hall of mirrors
then set it down
untasted.
We'll always have
the past, I suppose.
Now please,
just let me be.

Hakim sat
on the banks of the Euphrates,
his discarded newspaper
lifting, page by page,
on the warm wind.

He had been reading of the countless dead.

Of course, his mind played first
over those he had known.
An uncle, two brothers,
his mother
and a grandfather of ninety six.

All of them,
definitely gone.

But according to the paper,
atop the official body count
some twenty thousand souls
may or may not
have survived the conflict,
and his head swam
with this crowded limbo
and the knowledge
that no-one knew.

Enough people
to populate a small town,
possibly dead.
Not important enough
for anyone to be sure.
And Hakim, eyes
glazed in the dusty sunshine,
began to wonder
whether he was one of them,
the uncounted,
the unacknowledged,
wandering vacantly
through his outstayed welcome,

simpy waiting
for someone
to write down
his name.

You know the feeling
when you toss someone a key,
a coin
or a compliment
and someone else leaps in the way
and snatches it from the air?

The unintended catcher,
however swift of reflex
and waggish of humour
has broken the spell,
interrupted the communication

This came to mind
when I heard
that my album was playing in the sandwich shop
to a cluster of hungry strangers.
And songs
which I had crafted
for a certain small collective

now hung heavy
with the smell of frying bacon
and the unasked impressions
of the wrong crowd.

Oh baby,
prepare yourself for a fitting tribute
at the hands of my lyrical ability.
I will rhyme effectively
much as a successful sportsman
might employ his talents
in order to win a tournament of some kind.
Indeed, my mastery of rhythm and rhyme
will be such
that you will find yourself very powerfully
attracted to me.

Girl,
you put me in mind of a famous celebrity
noted for her physical beauty.
If you were, let's say, a car,
you would be
a really good car.

The sort of car
I would wish to own and drive.

Not convinced?
Then let me assure you
that I can easily put paid to my rivals
by deploying the linguistic and musical prowess
which I believe I mentioned above.

Oh yeah.

Incidentally,
I would think nothing
of expending quite considerable sums
on nice things to give you.

That would be nice,
wouldn't it?

So, baby,
if these enticements are sufficient to stir your interest
in me
then I would be delighted
to exchange
contact details
or something.

Oh yeah.  Get down.