Beer Boys at The Cross Keys
money crams the table – chalk names filled to closing
so we moved next door

to The Jolly Trooper
where a crowd of old boys drank whisky and talked clod
over pickled eggs and ham

we thought the chatter would stop
but a worked hand ****** a glass deep into my palm
‘ere, aveadropuvthisun

amber smelling liquid
raised my lips in sour expectation
gone

fire from the hearth
autumn plums and American oak-soaked grape
sculpture a smile

it’s good       **** good
a clap on the back and a glug in my glass

A Marital Sonnet
‘Why don’t we go to the Isle of Wight?’
she said, one morning over breakfast.
‘Just travel down and stay the night.’
she said and I looked down, embarrassed.

‘But it’s full of ****** Cockneys’ I said,
‘All selling whelks, jellied eels and mash.’
She crossed the kitchen and kissed my head
and said ‘At times you talk such trash.’

‘But if it rains it’ll be a waste of time.
I doubt there is very much to do.’
She smiled and put her hand in mine
‘It’ll be a weekend just for two.’

Later, we went to the Isle of Wight
and surprisingly, it was actually all right.

Saturday Boy

Pound of Cumberland, Mrs Finn?
Hand grab sausage swirl - in the bag.
**** for Mrs Peters, fillet for Mr Snyde.
Money in, meat out.

Out of sight saw-grind
cleaver-chop through bone.
Thick-set carcass/Gaffer neck
tea and toast and tea.

Meat fridge full of flesh
sky hanging dry on hooks
bags of liver and lights
pig head, sheep foot.

Open to Closed on the door
chain-link mesh pulled back
blocks scoured with wire-tipped brush
–  scrub don’t tickle.

Gaffer writes tomorrow’s boards
saw, cleaver and blade soaked
floor swept and mopped
blood and bleach.

Saturday Afternoon at the Smithy



Heart-pumped heat wall -
bellow-breathed cherry tip


Tink-tung               Tink-tung
spring-hammered hop-head rhythm
bingo-winged ripple, suet and mouth.


Square peg – round hole?  No problem.
Hot iron wrought with box-jaw tong tease.
Tight fit.  Good. Sweat-drop-splatter.
Wire teeth scrape garnet rifts,


Pig scratch back into scraped coke -
metal to plasticine.
White fizzy sparks fly and hiss


Phlopp – thirsty water stings.
Ferrous blood taste – time for tea.

Night Hunt

Artemis’s light shines full
silver coating the shadows
populating the space by the wood
where I wait, knowing.
The stars, tiny punctures
in the ink black eternity
announce your arrival.

The first splash of rain
hits my trembling cheek
I know that the time is near
when invisible I can move
stalking soundless through the grass.

Watching, ever watching
inching forward low and taut
close enough to breathe the same air
the prey liminal through death.

The Shed

Waiting for afternoon
when I visit, tea in one hand
crossword in the other.

Rows of last year’s seeds parade on the shelf
by the window, cobwebs high and tight.
Mulchy  tobacco odours mingle in mooted sunbeams.
Garden tools hung neatly on nails, the workbench clear
save for the jars of nuts and screws and old mug rings.

Exiled carpet, stiff with fatigue,
plant pots are the only pattern left,
the wooden stool  moulded with old-age-grooves
and joints that grumble,
stands next to bottled rhubarb and elderberry
dusty and vibrant,  drinking in summers past.

Taxi Ride

‘Hop on.’ says The Fez
‘There’s no stairs.’ Sleepy eyed dry mouth.
‘Tug the tassel and swing.’
I tugged the tassel and swung and Whoosh!
Stars distant below,
velvet and silk far behind
ochre stretches indigo
on the jasmine zephyr.
Ancient tombs **** past,
dry walled cities hidden in dust.

Will I see my dinner?

The sun hisses, the moon stretches
spilling onto the onyx sea.
‘Where to?’ Fez says
‘It’s your ride’ I shrug.
‘Maybe an ex, or your boss.’
‘Nah, that would be a waste.’
‘How about the Jungle or The World’s Roof?’
Restless I turn and say
‘Just home will do’