All these years, confused and bereft.
Dying so young with harsh grief left.
But they still will come if you catch their eyes.
Six it says,  so hard to count
when they play around your feet.
To small to fear,
so wanting to be loved.

Meant to see them Yesterday,
let them down.
Forgot.
Margaret wouldn't,
She'd be there, and James,
in the distance, old but smiling.
To  say hello
to their six wee babies in the snow.

Keep me a spot,
for in years to come,
I'll stand watching
with your Dad and Mum.

Stand here, close your eyes,
There! Feel it?
Swaying, in steady circles,
forlorn and not decreasing.
Time has not healed.

His hand swelled,
blotchy blue.
She tried, and cried.
Had to kneel ,
to touch the floor,
the impact of the loss
hits a woman so hard.

"It's not your fault,
go to the light in peace,"
she said, tears in her eyes,
as She tries so hard.
For the mother of the
Child who fell down to the yard.

Well, sort of.
I think I saw Jim Morrison today.
At the end of the hall,
his hand high on the wall,
nothing to say.

A Bell jet helmet in his hand,
chin strap swinging,
perhaps he sought his band,
wanted to start singing?

Perfect stance,
beyond any pose I've seen,
a natural nonchalance,
no need for second chance.
Right first time.

On with the lights,
He faded fast, retreated
undefeated, unbowed.
a *****, beautiful,
drug fuelled peacock,
eyes wide,
no shame to hide.

Wanted to ask him,
"Jim, was it you,
that gave Robbie that black eye?"
Or" was it the helmet your  brother
wore when he died?"
With a girl astride,
his bike throttle wide?

He wouldn't have said.
he's not my kind of dead.
He knows who he is,
and smiles at all this.
I can hear his boots still,
and shake with the  thrill.

Jim doen't give interviews,
nor read the news
that he once filled.
But he's still got that smile.
Saw it flash.
A smile, for me?
Ha, we'll see.

We almost hung out..

Ate chips today.
Wahay, thought "I can do this".
Wrong again!
those old scars caught me out,
like devils whistling innocent,
then, jumping out not heaven sent
to snare and snarl and cut.

Close up, shrink that throat.
Close ranks and give thanks
that," we believe,
it will not degenerate"
Dr Mansoor says,
"To the point that leaves you
unable to breathe."

Self trachaeotomy?
Sooner self lobotomy.

But my friends chips were nice.
So is she, looks out for me.
Just carry a knife and tube,
in case I need you!

A tiny speck, growing fast,
so straight, direct that it must be
the first it took, and now its last.
Sobered, sad, feeling bad for riding
like a maniac, and hiding my eyes
from accusing skies.

Empty accusing skies.

The rub comes, as it always does.
with shock and dread.
Taking my helmet from my head.
It is there.
On me.
Neck broke.
Dead.
Sweet.
Young.
Complete.
Dead complete.

Pushed between  my legs
and tank, unseen and thank
my lucky stars that mother birds
don't stand accusing of their loss.
It's bill, still with the bright,
that makes both of its parents fight
to feed unruly chicks
and guard them in a nest of sticks.

So find a bag to wrap it in,
shed quiet tears,
for this new sin.
Glance quickly past
the stinking summer bin.
Rotten with sloth and waste,
and life gone bad.

Where ?
Somewhere that will care.
For a new soul taken,
a wee heart broken.
Sorrow unspoken.

Anwoth,
whispers, down among the stones,
Plants crown the walls,
and, in summer glory
the voices of the dead
gently talk.

Just listen.
They need you.
To hear.

Anwoth,
if you take a look,
hidden in the quiet,
beneath an evergreen.
Beneath THE evergreen.
  a  stone that says.

A Baby Bird.

I read He marks the sparrows fall,
so should We  all.

I went to the Sea today,
hunting stones at Carrick bay.
Grass blurs to rock, water waiting,
for the steady pull
of tide and time.

No child with me,
to see the world in wonders way.
To dream that magic here holds sway.
Rocks might rear into the sky,
gulls great dragons passing high.

Pools, lying still, amongst the wrack,
whisper "enter, no glance back".
Mysteries of ancient deep,
in the soothing dark they keep.

Drink the water, tasting warm,
slip into another realm,
playful fishes open- eyed,
gape and gossip as I glide.

A pocket of stones,
a pocket of shell,
thank you Carrick.
You'll do me well.

Pressaging doom,
girls will swoon,
the number was there,
can't write too soon.
Not suspicious?
Nah not me...
well yes,
actually.
Something down,
any crap,
feeling worn,
need my nap.
got that number in my mind,
now something in the dark will find....
me.
The Bin-bags will attack,
circle drive them back.
Being flippant,
yeah thats hoping.
Take the mickey,
lay wide open.
To Them. It.
******.
Only wanted,
to have 14.
Poems.
Now It may come again.
Duvet!
Light on?
Best!
Pray?
Yup!
Circle,
That will be dandy.
Pay for flippancy,
deserve it.
Sorry.
Got pals,
big pals.