Your smile scatters wide,
as the sun shines beholding
your always tomorrow.
Enthralled by sincerity
your eyes,
enraptures persuasion
by the strolling grass
and erstwhile desire
we've motioned high.

Need your kindness to share a kiss
as your yellow dress blows
like a deft daffodil,
your auburn pony tail
and laced plimsolls
are all summer
like a girl guide out to picnic
who needs a parasol
to shield her freckles
and those bumble bees
sharing the carrrot cake.

What good is Victoria now?
currently on schedule
the logic of SW1 follows
the real estate of the concrete
cash cow,
office blocks turning luxuriate habitation
a new class to wade the hues
of practised entitlement
which doesn't have to be gatEd
iron will makes for  a conceriege ,
based on the accepted provision
we have been usurped
see the dark swan grow.
whose space is it now?

Peter the cat looked beyond the window box
with daffodils wistfully swaying,
on Sunday the factory's
vacant parking lot,
behind leyandii hedging
had the potential of shielding mayhem
in this ever contrite world.
Peter potentially free as a wanderer
sees the pigeons,
in the yard -
his speculative form
gives a wide berth
whiskers working overtime
he senses unforseen danger,
reynard appears from around the corner,
and he stays at home

Kippers and toast for breakfast,
washed down by a fairtrade Ceylon,
eagerly anticipating the Christain Aid appeal
through my letter box.
Aware of others earthly disengage
their morning monotony flickers  through their lounge,
consummate hypocrites watching the repeat soap operas,
the profundity of their silence radiates through to the adverts.
as they had a cause too,
until its auto recluse with the
outside world
the news slot borders on paranoia
a dent to exclusivity.

Silence is a body strong
books may split
stems for the breaking,
now is the time
to hold our thoughts
carrying the folding chair of burden,
upright conscience
saying what's right
at the time
when needless pause may see us prevaricate.

Like snowdrops they droop their heads,
contemplating brighter days
away from the glare of the acronites'
yellowing purge by the graves around St Margarets.

The soon to be beached meadows shimmers
as the heightened sun dehumidifies  the outlying cornfields
evaporating the ground cover.
Scarabs appear postulating
the broken bonds of  farmer
and nature.
In the combustible sands
Great things will be birthed.

Those sash windows rotten in their frames
the venerated better placed,
to observe the desperation
of others,
once laughed back erstwhile,
but its always the emptier pocket
that question the affordability of repairs
as the day is long,
the overgrown bramble in the parterre garden
obliterates the rectangular  lines
a vernacular happenstance
socially  trailing  backwards

Gushing rain's a
scurrying season,
plying woe with loosened tiles,
detaching once proud roofs.
From whose past has this rain dance been arrainged ?
All we stand for is porous and howling wind,
a gambit of ill suited omens'
hectoring guise to scour
our cracked chimney pots.

You've picked out a folio
and wished for a dream
yet the nib of your pen has ran dry,
like yesterdays thirst.
The bridgehead  that spanned
your momentary stride,
is someone else's iron cast certainty,
their vibe having read
the better book,
a change champion
more successfully ascribed.

Moving horizons
seem to gorge the visuals,
alongside cumulus clouds that pre-shadows the destination,
on scraped knees even the shoreline dissipates with the impervious vista,
at times the night air feels insecurely ballast,
how can we be said
to be truly safe?
when the vestige Cities
mourn with the tiresomeness of the beaten track.

An oasis of hope is vanquished by order of
a diet of worms,
pyred vitriol
stored in sunken shafts,
no tenable reason is further  expanded
nor quarter given;
hushed words turn into withered excuses.
no bells to commerate the ex officios
once held in prestige.

My immortal record player Technics SL D303 entrench's
something  recently acquired
possessing physical  music.
LP covers, with track listings
printed as intended,
to be read,
one records' perfection;
Jackie Lomax's début
got me  into his Three album
thanks again E bay.

The saffron days slip beneath the eaves of our garden shed.
A bugle variegates past feelings
but do we necessarily have to linger,
when the forbidden fruit offered
tastes that sweeter,
innocence pauses as an
incongruous sound.
The frosted morning roof shimmers
to no avail,
gilded promises warm
the willingness newly acquired.

The city plays cat and mouse
and pefects the fear.
Jaggered lights dazzle
the victim
and nautical terms are resurrected as shanking.
Hospitals in an ode to Johannesburg's ingenuity
repair the injurious knife wounds
caused not by weekend lighter fuel
but a postcode lottery
undone only by the postman.

He used to play with his train set
like a train conductor in his own private domain,
the standard gauge his only knowledge,
little realising  the arterial flow
of his future days.
the logistics of money flow
the stop start of motivation
the despondency of the heart.

Where silence weaves shrouds
avarice is left in the cold,
beyond the trees and stone walls
we have finally left the crowds.
The sleeping mist lounges,
taking in our thoughts
and not even cloth ears himself
can ignore the enchantment already
whispering our vows

Time as the healer,
this vinyl waxes merrily
how could we not  steal moments listening?
the record plays like a lost friend -
cascading grooves gives choice,
eye contact breaks the reticence
enthralled with our knowledge
enthral to the Elektra.

I'm off to see Jenny
she's keeping well,
just worried about her bunion
but she's a brave lass.
The way she cares for one and all
and carries her mascara,
with dreams of being a brunette.
not forgetting her penchant for wearing worn designer shoes -
she insists on taking to Bournemoth despite
stubbing her toe nails,
to no ones avail.

Let the self seeding crocus mia beguile,
burying our heads in Sunday papers
taking the coloured supplements
to heart,
whilst in the shade forgetting others suffering,
again we turn inwards,
dreaming of strawberries and clotted cream
and strolling to the local ligne roset,
these middle class values
ostensibly vouched by the world
yet no longer made in our image.

He died in a shell of
his own making,
no runaway excuses or
afforded sorrow, to wash
his depleted crown or
balm his hand.
Sackcloth and ashes
paraded;
despatch due his rainy Sunday.

The formulae for well being
is found in those memories,
a preparedness to unearth
yesterday's yearbooks;
which releases those far flung controls of analogue, 
resurrecting belt driven
record players
to play Starbuck and Brothers Johnson
reviving  '76,
mentally speeding on pristine motorways,
buzzing by on a chevy  corvette
humming to the suggestive "Afternoon Delight"
vying with your Radio's antenna.

Croydon was never the same
after 65
when it was sawn in half.
Wellesley underpass like
a strewn underbelly,
gave the Motor vehicle its commensurate order.
Whitgift middle schools playing fields uprooted south
making way for the,
Whitgift Centre, old before its time,
like Dorian Gray in reverse.
I recall Grants department store closing in 1980.
presiding over an omen, we could not afford a niche,
only for it to become an entertainment venue.
Standardization became our
inalienable right
with the soul of the centre dying
death by a thousand cuts,
not helped by the recent riots.
But Croydon will survive.

Mortified he draws a blank
the modicum of kindness
wears a knowing grin,
cobwebs in the morning
jostle with fading stars.
Cold farm comfort
with buttermilk and soda bread
the Herdsman plays the waiting game.

The fading state lines spells memories,
as the rain comes down,
a clutch of fallen gratitude
may possibly release the pain.
Spent embraces dissolve
those hard shouldered highways.
Let your tumblers of Tennessee cry resolution,
as the doe eyed Gypsy Inn
dims low,
receding as this one night stand.

She's my errant woman
colouring all before her,
weaving her fallen braids.
A burgeoning ghoul from nearside of the borders,
presents tansy as a welcoming gift,
under cover of nights guard.
Precociousness is flung,
celestial mothers to be
are lost to the fitfullness of her burning vex.

The montage of faces
from all corners of the globe,
new tounges, thoughtful eyes.
A generation safe from past
strains of inhumanity.
There's no hobsons choice
only permanent reinvention.
The glory to be who you wish
the edifying  gift bestowed
from England the hub of the free

It is better to bark at the moon
than let speechlessness seep  through the void.
Until the premise of the voyage is replete
can we know the cosmos
sayeth the wise on a chagrin of a day.
Clod and ash will be our bane
and only the heralded will remain,
two feet standing rather than
crawling, tantamount to recidivism.

Arise by any other means
scripts are for the turning.
Into the shadowlands of performance they infuse,
oblivious to the countenance thus incurred.
Silent stillness - the hush of curtains
fortitude stumbles yet remains
like any other egress  
an unpredictable profession.

garlands on the beach,
togas like walk way gables,
gaze back expectantly
for our return.
Celestial anglers catch loaves from the shore
and the limelight wash delinates
the patience of man the fallen shadow.

They brace the moonlight with forgotten words
and follow broken trails
as if on a reconnaissance
to St Peters gate,
where they would be earnestly brushed away
without so much as a shed tear.
They feast on wild boar
and laugh into their mead,  
those intrepid souls
without so much as a purpose,
render themselves to the dying winds.

I was told the Isle of Wight
was like going back twenty years in time.
The Red Funnel ferry took us
to this enchanted island,
described as England in miniature.
There was this relaxed feel
of people not pushing for the burn,
extending to the mannered staff
at Osborne House,
who couldn't be more helpful
and the Waitrose counter girl
providing the creme de creme
of friendliness.
The chief steward of the ferry
lifted our spirits
I vowed to Vectis to return.

A breeze on Sunday morning
then gushes the rain,
under canopy of a tree
waiting for a bus,
hardly a soul around,
way before the church brigade.
I feel such weekend days serves us as being most ubiquitous,
freedom of movement
giving credit that most people are good -
flagship thoughts as clear as  Adams first steps.

Nostalgia for a vanished world
of  Macfisheries and the
Orange Hand boyswear store at Golders Green.
Bar Linda at the bus station
close to the record shop
with listening booths.
Those were our prize days
with au pairs Franny  and Janine
and our London memories.
As children
we never knew we had it all.
In our back garden
buried treasure - a cows bell
and delft plates.
The Jackson Five and Banana Splits,
bubble gum the preferred choice.
America so abundant on the horizon,
Pickettywitch on the radio.
playing that same old feeling
we so accordingly search for now.

Her  red dress and  curls
are currently bespoke  in her  mind.
Walking  home, past the overgrown duck pond,
towards  honeysuckle lane
she  nonchalantly recalls
her  cookery classes
where see dreamed of preparing
welcome  meals for  a chosen one.
But  of  late, her mercurialness
navigates notional dreams
solitary by turn,
and  then  she  cut her  curls
to renounce  her prior gains.

Standing fifty years high
I wonder if  we need clip on light meters
to  resurrect non cds slrs.
Of course I would want an auto
diaphragm and thirty six exposure counter.
Against this I would really like you to have a beehive
and to successfully  do the twist
with a full debutantes figure.
What is more see Man city go down again
like fifty years ago
just  after the Beatles
wanting to be loved
showed their mettle
by doing away with our Pete Best.

Got no Amber or her sagely advice!
She's off to an improvement course
for aspiring  plantsmen.
The weekends don't have
to be set in stone,
theres importance in independent thinking,
its not to be feared.
Buy some feed for the pigeons
decide between euphorbia  or
euphoria
the difference is emphatic
and see what comes.

Off to buy a discounted Pentax Spotmatic 2
down Purley Radios.
I want  to book a holiday in Scarborough too.
Dracula's  brood back in Shirley
deserve a wait long for that postcard.
Later I plan to take Rachel to  see
"The Phantom of the Paradise"
and together buy some vinyl  down HR Cloakes.
"Calamity Jane", by  Stray Dog I suggest
Parfait is  the  world  for us  bedsitters in Waddon.

Bromley pale marmalade
on rye bread
in tupperware containers,
flasks of milky tea too.
Pens and paper at the ready to review places:
Anglesley Abbey and Borde Hill
visited on alternating months.
Gardens so awe inspiring
their visual consolation  
so uplifting,
manna for the mind
and deadlines for the
horticultural society review.

I occasionally see your marmalade  cat
and painted  stones
with  "I  love  you", dedicated to your friends,
sometimes you dispatch paper aeroplanes  to that effect,
overall your ponytails and mint teas means everything endearing
please don't  change
the  world circles  but 
your personage
continues to  be immense gift.

Zoom me in Mister Rock
the seize is here
Who cares about that ****** ?
The Cirrus clouds falter
when the ozones hots up there,
good here, Jessica's bronzing
by the shadow of the Martello Tower
feeding scraps to Koi Fish
who have enough love.

Closing  my  eyes  behind the lens
would  be like an open book invitation,
there would be no surprises .
Only my  pre- visualization
would  uncover  the finer detail
already known - hills  and  walkways,
where  we  would tilt our  eyes -
finding a  box  of  immense  aperture
shimmering  light
that  could  not ­ possibly  be described as over exposure
but  the  truth of  the  spoken image.

How Marjorie dances
cheek by jowl,
we could never be strangers-
her face countenances
with comely candle light .
Parfait Oysters and Rose  -
a double diamond of moonlight.
Only in France's nord pas de calais
could we rejoice,
redolent in vintage Boulonge
our hearts aching for one another.

Rhetorically I wish the warm
Stoke rain
would wash away the grey gloom,
allotments included.
The greenfly and other impertinents unexempted.
Minor disruptions apart will bring out our stoicisn,
gushing from the backwaters
we feared we had become,
raking in a new terrain.

Sequestration by  other means
A railway line its salient  claim,
running sleepers  into the distance.
Steady  reminders -
a segment of canal
whose older self
ultimately gave birth to snaking hamlets, now mature.
A verdant nature trail coursing the disinterred bank side,
a feeder reservoir now yachting  waters
shaping the geography.

shaping the geography.

The graduation party
with fried aubergine, croutons and rye whisky
has raised the hairs of the alumni.
Kismets  afoot about forming a band,
named after actress Alice White,
intuitive bluesy Psychedelicia.
Devonport's dappling on bass
and Schemtar's already on drums.
The devils in the details with the lead singer,
for the want of a lead guitarist
they are gyved.
But if they practice like clockwork
the turnaround will resonant .

The miraculous Quinoa has been exported out of the local market.
The westerner deems this as their  super deed.
The idea that the  Inca finally died at  the  grocery shop
grew root,
furnished  beneath the serving glare of the exceptional  crocheted beards.

We have spoken about bad seed previously
even bad blood -
but only in moral terms.
Genealogy was the big hitter after all,
like marrying into maternal sided dementia,
too late to realise the Wife's Aunts were whittled one by one.
Daughters' must be
quaking what their future holds
their teenage daughters blissfully
too young to contemplate.

Walking past the stupefied wall
its chippings tells a different story;
who was the graffitist and  perhaps the eventual liberator,
rolled up into that cumulative  presiding chisel
that took it to the ledge.