He’s got a bagel on his head,
Not a Cornish Pastie, nor a slice of bread;

Not a Singin’ Hinny, nor a Bacon Roll,
Not Bedfordshire Clanger nor Toad-in-the-Hole;

Black Buns from Scotland pass him by,
No Jammy Rascals, nor Stargazy Pie;

No Bakewell Tarts, and no Teisen Lap,
No Apple Dumplings adorn his cap;

No scones from Devon spread with cream and jam;
Just a crispy bagel full of cheese and ham.

Bagels are the coolest, bagels are the best:
Up with the bagels and down with the rest.
Onwards and upwards, long may it be said:
He’s got a bagel on his head.

A wind-turbine’s lament. (29 January 2017)

I am a wind-turbine. For five and a half years
I have been stood on this nice hill,
Turning my blades as I was taught.
They say I am making something called ‘power’
So you can boil your kettles and make tea,
Turn on your heating and snuggle up
Cosy and warm when it’s cold; or run the air-conditioning
When it gets hot.

My name is Wallie,
And I am very sad.
From my hill I used to see
A sandy bay, with lots of nice grass
Growing along its edge, and pretty flowers bobbing
in the same winds that turn my blades.
I really liked those flowers,
And felt close to them. They danced like me
In the cold winds, warm winds, summer breezes
And autumn gales coming off the sea.

And you walked there as well, sometimes,
And saw the flowers, and your dogs ran along
Between the sand-dunes, and rushed in and out of the waves
Which broke on the beach, where your children played
And built sand-castles.

But now people have come;
They had huge orange diggers which clashed with the soft
Colours of beach and sea and sky;
And they ripped up the grass and the flowers and the sand-dunes,
And then people laid sterilized turf
And made bunkers full of infertile sand
Where nothing grew.
And the whole beach was walled off, so no-one could walk there.
And the dogs no longer chased their tails, and the flowers no longer bloomed;
And all the gulls which used to swoop over the foam
Went away.

And now all I have to look at
Is people with check trousers and garish hats,
And serfs carrying bags full of funny-shaped sticks;
They walk about on the turf and hit little *****
And then they go to where they’ve landed –
Not on foot, with dogs and children running –
But in little carts in clashing colours.

I asked the wind-turbine next to me,
Which can get pirate radio frequencies on its antennae,
What was going on and he said
(his name’s Wallie too); they are playing ‘golf’.
And I said: why? and he said: they have nothing better to do.

The other turbines and I (we’re all called ‘Wallie’)
discussed what to do;
And we decided I should write this letter
To any newspaper which will print it, and complain:

‘We used to have a nice view from this hill,
Of a sandy bay, with lots of nice grass
Growing along its edge, and pretty flowers bobbing
In the same winds that turn our blades.
We really liked those flowers,
And felt close to them. They danced like us
In the cold winds, warm winds, summer breezes
And autumn gales coming off the sea.

But now all we have to look at
Is barren grass, denatured sand,
And people in garish clothes who do not care
For flowers and grass and dogs and seagulls
But just hit little ***** about.

No one asked us
If we wanted this change; we were not consulted
And we want to know why we, who serve you faithfully
And give you heat and light, and power your homes
Are worth less than these other people,
Just because they are ‘rich’?’

We are only wind-turbines,
But our voice should also count.
And it you don’t agree
Ask yourself: how much is your own voice worth?
And why?’

He’s got a bagel on his head (February 28 2017).
He’s got a bagel on his head,
Not a Cornish Pastie, nor a slice of bread;

Not a Singin’ Hinny, nor a Bacon Roll,
Not Bedfordshire Clanger nor Toad-in-the-Hole;

Black Buns from Scotland pass him by,
No Jammy Rascals, nor Stargazy Pie;

No Bakewell Tarts, and no Teisen Lap,
No Apple Dumplings adorn his cap;

No scones from Devon spread with cream and jam;
Just a crispy bagel full of cheese and ham.

Bagels are the coolest, bagels are the best:
Up with the bagels and down with the rest.
Onwards and upwards, long may it be said:
He’s got a bagel on his head.

He’s got a bagel on his head (February 28 2017).
He’s got a bagel on his head,
Not a Cornish Pastie, nor a slice of bread;

Not a Singin’ Hinny, nor a Bacon Roll,
Not Bedfordshire Clanger nor Toad-in-the-Hole;

Black Buns from Scotland pass him by,
No Jammy Rascals, nor Stargazy Pie;

No Bakewell Tarts, and no Teisen Lap,
No Apple Dumplings adorn his cap;

No scones from Devon spread with cream and jam;
Just a crispy bagel full of cheese and ham.

Bagels are the coolest, bagels are the best:
Up with the bagels and down with the rest.
Onwards and upwards, long may it be said:
He’s got a bagel on his head.

Terror steed.
He drinks from the well
where Mimir’s head
hoards the runes.

His avatars stand in forgotten corners.
I found one in a fragment of green
saved from the sprawl of the Great Wen;

his grey trunk was lightning-scarred,
yet bravely he held up his broken arms,
and under his root, bees were nesting.

Beset by serpents, nibbled by stags,
still he bears up the weight of the world.
Without his breath, the air we breathe

would choke, not nourish. Our lives hang
on his outspread arms, athirst for the sweet
inspiring ale which Bragi brews.

Wisdom’s words
lie in the well;
you must ride the terror-steed to read them,

but the price is high, and few will pay it,
though one eye sees more clearly than two
how when the ash shakes the earth trembles,

and terror-steed bears off the quick and the dead.

Striding over the high hills,
She wraps herself in the north wind,
A scarf of snow hugging her neck.

Is it the cold makes her face blue,
Or does her face chill the land?
When she rinses out her old plaid
Whirlpools whip up the foaming sea.
Trees crack in her icy breath,
And birds fall frozen from the branch.

Dark Lady of the dark days;
Who would believe her womb carries
The solstice light of the deep year?

Snow on the far heights spills over
their shoulders, drops down to feed
deep streams crossing wide moorland,

where wind-blown trees whisper, overtopping
tangles of grass, and outcrops of stone
break through bramble and barren thorn.

Easily over the pathless land
she comes, on a waning moon, clasping
a grey cloak at her white throat.

Raven sits on a branch above
shapeless stone, stropping his beak;
he and she are akin, a merry meeting.

‘Well-met, brother – whence are you come
with your beak all ****** from breaking your fast?
What word do you bring from the world of men?’

He turns his bright eye towards her:
‘Battle is joined in the world below,
from all peoples men are mustered,

enough for us all, even the eagles,
nor need we vie with the grey wolf;
the feast is spread to feed us all.

Blow up your fire, sister, boil your cauldron;
a heavy harvest will fill your hall.’
She smiles, and makes for the autumn woods

where, below the moor, the turning trees
dwindle in dusk as their bright burden
burns away.

I remember you, resplendent
in white and gold, like a ****** bride,
but (as you said) with no such intent,
adventuring off – I was ill in bed
or I’d have been with you – to make mischief
in the jasmine-scented Cairo night.

And I remember you, rosy with wine,
in a long blue gown, with blazing hair outspread,
fast asleep in the back of a London taxi.
I had such ado to wake you,
while another friend stood by,
holding your golden child.

And when you finally surfaced,
you staggered, baby on arm, up the steps,
refusing help, to your front door;
we watched, our hearts in our mouths,
till you found the lock, and vanished inside.

So you have lived your life, ever chasing
after the next rainbow; a leonine spirit,
shimmering in air made lambent by your fire.

For years you were my icon, my aspiration,
but each of us must be true to her own nature;
it’s the kobbolds of earth give wings to the sea-goat’s foot.
‘The words of Saturn are harsh after the songs of Apollo’:
You, that way. I, this way.

Oh Weather Girl, so smart and slim,
Safe in your air-conditioning,
Coiffured and prinked, make-up in place;
No freckles on that flawless face,
Nor sweat upon your marble brow –
I wonder if you’ll ever know
How much your dulcet verbiage
Sends me insane with helpless rage.

You tell me, as the best of news:
‘It’s a good day for barbecues,
‘for the high pressure over Spain
‘will block out the Atlantic rain;
‘the outlook’s fine, with lots of sun,
‘and we’ll have highs of thirty-one’.
And then you flash your perfect teeth,
Complacency beyond belief!

You stupid woman, don’t you know
My flowers and veg need rain to grow?
And since there’s been a hosepipe ban
I have to use my watering-can.
It hasn’t rained for days and days:
Do you know how much water weighs?

Of course the fault’s not down to you,
You only read the autocue;
But could you, please, once in a while,
Just switch off that ****** smile!!

Between (2010)

Most things are considered either/or:
dark/light, now/then, good/bad (we don’t say ‘evil’).
Everything has its place, its little room
in which it sits, waiting till needed.

Of course there are different ways of ‘looking’,
lateral/linear, more opposition,
and the act of seeing is known to affect the seen –
though I’ve never been sure if it affects the seer too.

But I have ever been a lover of twilight,
dawning of day and falling of dusk.
Bright light dazzles and night obscures;
it’s the slow reveal that brings revelation.

So I don’t want to choose ‘either’, I want ‘both’.
Or better still, ‘between’- that acre of land
between the waves’ edge and the sea-wrack cast
high on the shore - now wet, now dry,

a merging of this and that, of here and there;
which can only be ploughed with a ram’s horn
and sown with spicy pepper, to bring forth
unknowable harvests, glistening with salt.

No opposites, no opposition here,
only a constant ever-changing flow
in the slanting, shivering light of dawn-dusk,
and the now-then day-night of a timeless earth.

[Refrain 1 Confidently]
Our mum is such a softie, no matter what we do
She always gives us what we want, and hugs and kisses too.
We get up late, don’t go to school, and hang about the street
We drop our litter on the floor and scuff it with our feet.  

But now …
Do you think we may have gone too far?
Perhaps we should say sorry?
Or is it too late for that?

[Refrain 2 Less confidently]
Our mum is such a softie, no matter what we do
She always gives us what we want, and hugs and kisses too.
We get up late, don’t go to school, and hang about the street
We drop our litter on the floor and scuff it with our feet.  

But now…
I don’t know about you, but I’m frightened.
I’ve never seen her like this.
Even when she was cross, she never shouted,
And never, ever hit me.

[Refrain 3 Hesitantly]
Our mum is such a softie, no matter what we do
She always gives us what we want, and hugs and kisses too.
We get up late, don’t go to school, and hang about the street
We drop our litter on the floor and scuff it with our feet.  

But now…
She has turned her dark face upon us.
Her steely eyes glitter, her upraised hand
Threatens the very worst you can imagine;
Storm, earthquake, thunderous wave, a hail of fire
Burning, consuming, killing, laying waste.

[Refrain 4 A desperate gabble]
Our mum is such a softie, no matter what we do
She always gives us what we want, and hugs and kisses too.
We get up late, don’t go to school, and hang about the street
We drop our litter on the floor and scuff it with our feet...

Is it too late?
Do we have a final chance?
She was so fair, so bright;
So kind, so all-providing, so benign…
But, now …

Cats upon a summer’s day
lying indolently down,
black and white, and silver-grey,
tabby, golden, ginger, brown,

on the catmint sprawled at ease,
breathing its sublime aroma,
shape their visions as they please
in a slumbrous catmint-coma.

Lands with rivers full of cream
stuffed with every kind of fish,
trout and salmon, plaice and bream,
fresh-cooked on a silver dish;

Cushion-trees with leaves of silk,
if a cat should seek repose,
overhang the Lake of Milk
where Roast-Chicken Forest grows.

Lean and hungry mogs and toms
grow to an enormous fatness
where nor dog nor human comes
to disturb their perfect Catness.

Dreaming in the afternoon
with closed eyes and folded paws,
cats regain their wits, and soon
they unsheathe their polished claws.

When the sun between the trees
stripes the lawn with blacks and golds,
tiger-cats, with guileful ease
prowl among the marigolds.

This is for all those sweet, those silly girls
Who painted up their eyes and lips and cheeks,
And sallied forth into the sparkling night
(Short skirts, crop tops, spike heels, dishevelled hair)
Intent on mischief, laughter, dancing, fun.

There was a time when I was one of them;
But luckier than them, I came back home,
A bit the worse for wear, a little drunk,
A little sick, sometimes a little bruised;
But nothing that a good sleep couldn’t cure.

These girls came home (if they came home at all
And weren’t found stark and cold in the waste grounds
And alleys) changed beyond recall;
Never again to know that careless joy,
That freedom to be silly, to be young.

I may not curse him, by the threefold law;
But ask you, Mother, in your winter guise,
The hooded crone, the washer at the ford,
The blue-faced strider of the barren hills,
Exultant glutter of the raven’s maw,
Girdled with dead men’s entrails, hung with skulls,
To wreak your vengeance on that greedy wretch
Who took these innocent sweethearts for his prey;
Transform his blood to venom in his veins;
Make each breath choke his lungs with acrid smoke;
Turn his limbs leaden and his shrivelled heart
(So hard already) into molten iron.

Comfort the victims and avenge the dead;
And pour his poison over his own head.

In memory of David Bowie, died 8 January 2016: ‘Second star to the right, and straight on till morning’.

In the blue midnight
A crown of stars
Lights on the head
Of winter-king, summer-king,
Oak and holly,

In the blue midnight
Wheeling and gliding
On glassy waters;
Up and out, down and back,
Turning the year.

In the blue midnight
Time’s hand is cold,
Eternity’s colder;
But infinite skies
Diamond-bright, featherlight,

In the blue midnight
Open the path,
leading us home.

I love to see the springtime
The wheat green in the blade,
And all the sweetly singing birds
in every blossoming glade;
and the pretty red blood on the fresh grass
where the dead men are laid.

Another place (Jan 9 2013)


Half-remembered, half-imagined,
the mind’s eye glimpses but can’t grasp
another place, another time.

now here;
here, now;
nowhere.