Down fickle street
they ride jalopy's just for fun.
Hoot at the  cyclist , gerrymander the  Vue.
I spy grief hurtling down,
plume grey from the exhaust.
We're  no wiser, no leaner
ingesting your  worn  speed pedals
bravo.

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

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.

Joanne told me they would be clapped out.
Radio Luxembourg wouldn't play them.
No Glam you see,
frayed collars, Bar room Blues.
But I'm still into Bees make Honey.
Pawned my Zenith Quad-8 for a Seiko LCD Quartz.
Memorised Ashai Pentax's Reason #44. 
Still have the hots for Marisa Berenson's knees.
No censure.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

An instance is also running,
the prisms of Glass
are in a better, knowledgable state.
Searching for principles,
by gasping at the sarcasm.

Have you heard the sound of sympathy?
some usher it as an sincere adage.
Others will mention the Fieldfare
and scribe Snow into that forgotten scenery.

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.

A shunting echo
a movement of clanking metal,
hurrying
across the rainy track .
I knew it well,
perchance to sleep.

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.

Raise awareness.
Thwart the detritus,
in this mindset
begin to honour resonance.
Failing to hear your inner esprit
there never be forgiveness,
the transformation to Spring
a new direction twice recurring.

Desdemona's engine stalled
she chortles contra possibilities,
neither of which are pellucid.
The night sky
reels in
mornings flight.

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.

The dawn chorus
breaks the silence.
A hush was my intended
understanding.
I gather not wearisomely
along this Rudderless incline,
humbled by my pursuant  thoughts.

How your breath feels like a bract
the unfathomableness of  perceptibly,
meanwhile our exististence is as garden clippers
to sundry ladders,
in a chasm we had reason to believe,
but the leaves have long mustered hence
your yellowing hair belonging to in-nobility
often subterfuge is a refuge .

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.

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.

Still to shed the germane party-line,
my one  liners may have beaten you anyway,
I'm no longer hearing  your Grandfather tick tock
neither have Newcombe and  Stephanie
Now feeling sorry for your passing,
though my discursive  may be heard elsewhere.

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.

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.

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.

We'd halloo and then chase down the years,
for each step we took, 
our eyes opened to the changes,
how I hate those mulched  leaves
there’s a certain funereal fatigue inherent,
orange visibility workers  monotonously arrive
stripping those old houses,
but those Removal vans 
that just kills the conversation.

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.

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.