Progress is wasted here
the high street draped in uniform glass fronts
why shouldn't we play our bugle
to rebuke this shard ?
yet in a corner there's still a market street
refusing the final nail,
there's a shoe, bakery, cycle and jewellery shop,
in our hearts we will
wear  pride to headline the clarion call
and shed anger at being accused of,
carrying congress with the past
at our coffee stall.

When I wander among the swathes of  Bluebells
I am minded of a  nascent  variety
creeping in amongst our beloved ones,
Spanish shifts of hue
in the Weald of traditional  Kent.
I swear some sad maid
riding on a basket bicycle
scattering new seed
how unpatriotic !

The withered gorse
gives a glint of her golden hue
amongst Winters cumular invitation,
whose ember leaves mire
neath  the creaking boughs.
The forge in the village
with its hard working blacksmith
presides by mornings emerald gown
of aconites blithely swaying in the churchyard.
The dormant headlands'
silent yearnings  jostles,
with the arcane wind ;
plying against the piebald sky,
whose tales refuse to ring hollow.

In the morning the mist arises
but some will say it is
yesterday's hubris.
I dont have an attic
to wayleigh communications
or require windows
to twitch gingham curtains
so the deep chill
void remains.

A debutante passed by my uncut grass
but she was no better served,
a dream interview with ******* Club
turned sour, this time of year.
At least she hasn't endless dealership openings
or humoured the word "exhilarating" in interviews
when inventing a rich Stepfather.
Like me there be few visitors.
Thirty  stubborn years will pass
but at least she know the meaning.
The pride of the morning.

I had only offered Madrynne a *** of
Shikokianum and a Herb Robert,
but before long, the calm of the "maiden grass"    
had over-reacted
their crown lain a heavy price,
for not only had I  rattled their jealousy
but a  subsequent breeze
scorched the floral bract,
of my prize "laidlaw" Bougainvillea
a cankerous deed -
cleft from veins,
like a storm brood
will there be such rashes again ?

On an Archipelago
far from septic isles,
Deep in silent azure
I place broaches and pins
in a wooden box, for safe keeping
And set her dreams on a bed of lichen,
fields of leafy pathway stretching
she’ll nestle woven toad flax and larkspur
to steadfast her conscience.
The Birds of the flock
thrush and dove, sensing her bridle
rejoice in her Mother lode,  
precious be their plenteous dawn.

Winter's edge flurries -
snowflakes converge,
a carpet of fox scavenged litter
re-emerging like
iced puddles of hubris.

Whilst The Christmas message is relayed
Rebecca erects a humming line
to keep away the crows and parquets
from her prized cabbage and kale.
but the threadbare sound is
reminiscent of cymbals,
carrying thoughts of a lost carnival.

She journeyed to the coast
and caught an amateur performance of the
"Seven Deadly Sins", in and out of situ.
The deserted beach, ghostly 
yet littered with wicker creels
the fisherman their whispers silenced,
better console with tomorrow's wise
in hope of an  epiphany.

Her countenance,
had long given up the ghost
Twilight tried to allay the ravelling .
She needed resilience,
for those fiery Sunday visits  
endured by her confused Son.
Trumping by prevarication,
until no more, she retorted.
Her honeysuckle dreams
turn ramshackle.
Those plumes of bonfire smoke
before and the after, differ now
on contrite compost.

It was always from the same breath
you were called both ***** and hen.
The cue from on the hoof words jarring.
They wanted to curtail your pride
to wrestle ambition,
chide even your Soliloquy.

By the soak of the covert
all she wanted to was wash
the dust from her feet,
proceeding to use a pumice
she recognised the endless toil.

Submitting to the widening  silence,
her cochlea impressed -
the whisper of what it was to hear a stream,  
the disciple's quest - now her inner strength :
wading courage, sharpened focus
the weathered course, she longed to know.
Tally Crane ,Oak and bream
the amble of time proceeded
mindful her shawl swept
towards a larger cycle .

Everybody said we were erstwhile, rather quaint
and could never pay our back rent ?
You listen to the silence of seashells
I grow colchicums for nurseries.
I often inquired what was your favourite animal
You always replied "Ursine"
something to do with Bears ?
Perhaps we should voyage to Newfoundland
and see them face to face,
recalling the word "Reseverez Vite"
Would that be any quicker ?
and dry your eyes
I love talking to you in the cyan light.
Often I thought a cup of Guayacanera
could tide our differences.

The lightest touch brisks my skin,
lost in halcyon amongst the wild marigolds
and cornflowers, I play with laughter.
Azure skies roll into my being
like a Shire horse I am caught
in trusting servitude.
The bladed grass slivers
a serpentine's story
florescent in camouflage.
As a reborn sprite
I commend myself.

Their interpretations are out
in the public domain,
either derivation serves.
Long drawn Ethmolgy
often over reaches,
Random pretentiousness increases,
until Lexicons are suppliant
causing loopholes to  lessen.
trying to excogitate meaning !

Some conquered words  muster
tithes of despair,
just for their being.
Someday ennoblement will sway,
a candle burning the spittle
of vengeance that should
wear no armour.

I could never be Raglan the  knife man
nor a slippery Thames eel.
I haven't enough apologies
that heed wings.
In the act of caprice
borne musket and grape
I floored  Thomas Avery,
Tavern proprietor
who lay cold as ecclesiastical stone,
having raptured my Ussela
in cheery Bishopsgate.

The black branches contradict the sky
they snag against its emerald cloth
The empty smithy nigh high
in squalid water
casts its furtive shadow.
The boy with steeped brow
rubs his pale eyes,
pallid under the dazed night
he is drunk with lament
a counternance with foretold death

There’s never enough reliance available
In safeguarding your bearded iris
from mellow night thieves
who sculpture dug holes
just for the fun of it

I am neither cryptic nor a firestone,
not even immune from hurt.
I deem myself functional
from a dearth of sources.
Gardening being instinctive.
Enduring Agnes my first love
with her then fringed suede ideals,
temporarily blamed herself,
believing  I could never be
the sum of her dreams.
Men are not clotheshorses
they don't need to kick clod.
Some would rather grew
Nicotiana Sylvestris and
the Sunflower "Moonwalker"
in their Midshires allotments
with Agnes's tending
their "Love lies bleeding".

Amongst the oyster shells,
and herring bones,
we drank our marigold wine,
well versed in starlight laughter
our future seemed twined.
I had always imagined your palour,
your etherealness wove a spell.
Your shadow cast until the dawn
forever nearing the shoreline.
Hope fell by the wayside
illumined you flurried
into the azure depths
a timeless steely rote
I recall.

A myriad of views from the window pane
sparks buried memories.
August has always been that Augural Month
the time of Achromatic colours,
painted as  crumbling stone walls
from a bygone Age.
Ice wine drank from the rind of the gourd
ranked sour, a season's poor worth -
nature's tithe ?
The colour of the meandering  smoke
discernible from my window,
will count  for more  promises
like a laden Kaleidoscope apart.

The fireside crackles at Lobster Inn
then retreats as the Solar tides wanes,
Embers of truth reappear
as craggy indifference,
silhouettes blind fingers
polished for clandestine tables,
whose singed confessions are
as stricken as bleached midnights.
We befit those restless
from this augural evermore.
Elsewhere it is Raining.

To see action through your Artillery,
your standing eyes betrays other emotions.
Longing to touch you
yet to see your through body,
form and no substance makes a stray bed of rest.
Craters of realisation  launch the chime.
What left have I,  having teased the lesion.

A crawling victim stands direction less, and having learnt,
I will disarm  your vague distractions.
According to lessons I call on regret and treasure its tears.
Surely past sufferers will empathise.
Mud and clay will wrap itself into an ointment
Then we can be reborn.

Under the thinning boughs of the Ash
he recanted the hush of the woods
The rain's dearth relented
as the Dryads, braided new ideals,
promising great abundance.
The sated Moon-flowers  swallowed the
nocturnal owls silhouette.
The fallow lands  impervious
to these swathes,  broom
sealing their heedlessness.

Whilst you daydreamed,
your eyes seemed to lose their sheen
and you'd forget  how to empathise.
You shut the car door hard
as  if someone who wanted
to aspirate closure.
We spent two nights at the Cooden Beach hotel,
so we could hear June Tabor and Oyster band,
proceeding this performance ,
we had our four slices of toast and an Americano.
Your pink canvas bag
and polished  stilettos
underneath the dinner table
hid an issue or two
playing a parallel game.

I love your supposed fraility
it appeals to me,
in your smile theres
a beckoning hint of marigolds,
your eyes are demure  
yet they catapult
waterfalls of Lisianthuses.
Your rivulet urges a suddenness
to speak your name
as though you have drawn me
I truly wonder who is  lost.

Charcoal, arbiter:
its equivocal
moral rectitude etches
the tableau off the dawn,
Swans too smudge the landscape.
The muses long gone ,
ghosts sit in red houses
once resplendent,
contemplate in whispers yet,
forever decisive in vacillation
their hands delineate,
the autumnal canopy
a symphony of coming despair.

He rested his walking stick by the corner
having stubbed his toe,
overseeing the cat grass grow.
Outside he would stoop only for wall flowers
refusing politely to enter stately homes,
for he wore but one Name, his own.
Under nocturnal happenstance
he would fend for the stray Marmalade cats
their gratitude matching his deciduous cloak.

We spoke of our tomorrows
and whispered a paragon promise
as laminated truth,
never knowing any other texture
for all we had were our eyes
conveying this pledge
our gazes outshine - glowing,
we could never journey
on borrowed moonlight.

Its a hard moribund life, swirling
oxygenated reeds in the rivulet,
pause her venture.
Nil by mouth, she strives to untangle,
tapered free,
to the ravenous lands re-emerging,
searching for morsels of truth.
Nourishment wrenched
from out stretched hands.
Like broken briars, lost thorns
embed a crown
of despondent woe

I had always wanted to buy Martha Marzipan
and to see her encased Vermilion diary
so she could heal beneath.
But she only succeeded  
in filling her emptiness
with joyful Psalm songs
at a daffodil festival

I always had envisaged lying with her
in fields of oxeye daises
under the cerulean blue of an early summer sky.
My seeming wishes were granted,
until she proceeded to  purloin such paradise
by cutting her hair
and daubing ash on her wrist.
For she had previously lit a candle
for her years made wise,
believing only women suffered pain
and I now realised,  no one could buy her.

Black tulips on the marbled floor
have no place here.
They remind others of how we existed
suitable only for that dark journey,
by those deemed more worthy,
under whose azure skies,
only their abodes could shimmer
for we can have no part .

Leaves mottled in their separateness
turn our seasons  
into days of lanquidity,
out stretched briars
tear at the stolen codex.
surmising exoteric warnings,
that magpies again steal,  
under whose inciting  night
can we wade this walkway.

Sleep in your wishes
Drunk on sapphire wine.
The atelier has drawn
its last cobweb.
The empty Sun
has banished its 49 saints,
the road home
is as ephemeral as the
first punch rendered.

The Artist wandered further
for whispers carry their weight in stone,
his eyes worn following the Moon
for in his deserted Atelier, spiders spatt
cobwebs and threadbare floors empty.
Gone was the  idyllic image of the cherry blossom
that daintly settled on the ground
for now it collects over a canopy
where rogue cheeked maidens
gander .
And the memory of Muriel, his muse
who danced foolishly into the fire, returns.
Wherewithal can we ever measure the true value
For she was not guarded,
stubborn even, against those denizens
the way of the World being evil
and the remnant of the Flemish cloth she wore
laid out alongside the stone wall.
The flicker of innocence ruptured
A brush stroke never  rendered.

Betwixt the wish to endear
with soda bread and cabecou
as ever our vases of marigolds wither with age
Yet I wish we could auger well, while standing still
with a *** of lapsang tea
before you  kick off your slippers
tip toe upstairs
in sweet anticipation,
entice this confusion  with our X and Y's,
and by turning the latch of the bay window
you will look into a misty pool
and dream of your  entitlement.

I am eager to express
This is not a playground,
nor a hawking station
adrift in a saline breeze.
I am not surprised at this reaction
personal pride foils this wanton randomness
toddling home,
I feel surrounded by poetry books
and before long I lie to myself
inventing that I have endless possibilities

Indoors the ornamental grass  
within an oblong planter,
stares out dejectedly from its base.
My eyes convey cusping thoughts,
willing the blades to whither  -
singeing sideways,
forming yet another nexus
reminding me of Cerrice.

Time runs through her promises
and discounts them
one by one
for such are these cart wheels
made to unravel the stony path
and yonder the Ash
jowl to cheek
their  longevity snaps
soiled by the wood-colliers

we tread  pebbles
that fornicate with the dead
laying  haphazardly
to unburden their endeavour,
de-fragmented
a Memory of un-feasibility
proclaims  the broken Path  
and purchased here for eternity

If there is a strong ideal
then wait for the graze ointment,
perhaps by then
I  will never be caught.
If there ever was cedar shingle
that  needed repairing,
three layers underneath
may never be enough.
Tomorrow feels its wear
perhaps my palms after all,
will not be pious ,
yet under the leitmotif
of the gilled
fish bucket
Life and I don't listen

If I were hanging recoiled on barbed wire
as part of some civil war
would my eyes shade to blue
or would the composite Brown anger you ?
and clearly if that offended you
would you be resolute
in not clipping the redoubt ?
Would you carte blanch
the injured with Morphine,
so they could fester politely
by the feat of decrepitation.

If a hymn is forgotten
there is no duress,
in the midst of a day
the willow still glistens,
the swallow
inspires another longing song.
Without words our feet
carries the distance.

You had the talk of old
and were a gleaner
who cautioned,
before the maelstrom
consumed you.
I recall you were once doused
with lime dust
to scream down your walls,
having dread of the tree-lines
whose opaquity fenced you in
like the rest of the then World.