don’t always
understand you
incomprehensible
beautiful
woman, you     ..

bought an ice cream
and sat in the park
whilst it melted      ..

keats was a poet and a
boxer and a doctor and a lover
and terminally ill, mate
you couldn’t write it

a man of letters
who pens
upon
trivial matters in convivial inns
where his life is spent
almost invariably
in tatters       ..

a staff night out
her in a little black dress
you could have made a bit of an effort
I said

put my hands in my
pockets
and now I’ve gone and mislaid
that particular jacket     ..

as I get older people
get fewer and fewer

mate, I’d give you money
right now
if only you’d put that guitar down    ..

who the hell is an illegal
asylum seeker, anyway,
on a boat crossing the channel
with his heart in his throat
thinking, surely britain
is better than this   ..

aren’t as many second hand
bookshops on the charing cross road as
there were when I was younger
of course, so were they   ..

this is all knew
I’d find it odd
my dear

do I hate the rascists
or the immigrants
I hate the rascists

this is where I live
I’d ask you in
but it’s a mess

you hate foreigners coming
over here we go again  ..

“I’ve had enough,” you
said, pushing away your plate,
but looking at me     ..

café society meant
a bit of a natter
over a cup of tea -
we’re not french

dressed to ****
and well yes there was
blood on her
skirt but I know
that’s not what
you meant

you either see migrants as a
problem, or you don’t
depends where you’re coming from,
I guess

frightfully british but
also roman catholic
ate no meat on a friday
was always fish and chips

threw it aside
thinking of course
a poem is never

as good as
it might have been,
though    ..

some days my legs work better
than others look at me oddly
as I clutch onto the railings, the wall
and you, you most of all  ..

of course, looking on
the bright side can
ruin your eyes  ..

saw a chicken up
a tree and
no one
believes me

got a couple of tickets for
the theatre if you’d
like to go? yes I would, actually.
goodbye

hid a poem in a tree in
the woods
but they cut it down
to just a couple of words

wanted to write something upon
westminster bridge
but since wordsworth had already scuppered me
completely
I went back to the pub    ..

you were crying and shaking as you tried
to explain you’d spent the night
with somebody else
well, as long as he makes you happy    ..

holmes knew every alleyway,
every insalubrious inn,
every criminal mastermind,

all the best clubs in london
and yet, he didn’t know her
but oh, she knew him    ..

looking at st paul’s from
across the river I see
someone looking back   ..

old bloke in the pub says
buy me a pint and I’ll be grateful
for ever mate, neither of us
have got that long       ..

invited me ‘round for tea
I said thank you
but I have some at home   ..

can’t see a way out at all
     wherever one looks there’s just wall
    and yes, one solitary gate
      whereby they gather to await
    the old fool

old bloke in the pub says
he’s drunk on the unfulfilled hopes
of his youth
but in truth it’s the scotch

went into the second hand bookshop
I said hi, what’s new?

when I saw her I fancied her and
thirty odd years later
after we married I still do and
******* woman I still fancy you

apparently the geese in russia
are bigger than the pyramids in egypt
now that’s proper gander

in 1979 I watched vera brittain’s testament of
youth on the BBC and bought the book
and read wilfred owen
and discovered horror and beauty and poetry

told as a boy if you cut a worm in half
half of it survives
but we’re not worms
boys just put down your knives

apparently relationships
have to be worked at, we laughed    ..

the angry knocking
and the insistence
I open the door

couldn’t help wondering
what was behind it

used to skive off school
and go to the reference library
to read quietly to myself
until they caught me,
said I was wasting my life   ..

just
        going
                    through
a don’t
                              want to
  write any
                     more
  of
        that
                     scotch
left?

hungry, he stepped
into the café
sat down and
ordered breakfast

knew he’d no
money to pay for it
and knew full
well that he would

light is the lilt
of a flute
at dusk
in a quiet square

let’s do lunch tomorrow
not sure if I can make it
I’m not asking you to cook

love to walk alone
through the city
streets are not just for grown
ups a daisy!

we’re both getting old,
but she still has dignity and desirability
and a demure sensuality and
all I have is a cough

have you ever met louis macniece
in his birmingham
dare say you might well have missed him of course
there is so much going on      ..

don’t get me wrong
I like trains;
it’s just getting on

p g wodehouse and
john betjeman made
life seem worth living
just to read them    ..