The pretence of too many new beginnings
lacking, eventually, any appearance of permanent lustre.
Each new day just another blob in a copybook
of fragmented scribblings.

Late at night
in a white, silent
and sleeping village

The Elizabethan
Serenade
seduces a heart
playing
solitaire.

A Granny Smith
a day etc.;
pears left to ripen
on a window sill
are worth waiting for;
1 kiwi = 4 oranges
in vitamin C -
do eat the skin!

Fruit for the eating -
elliciting a little homesickness
for our lost Garden of Eden.

Up there,
above the crowns
of darkened bare wintry trees
the rabbits delight
in all the joys of good conversation.

They are no more afraid
of eavesdroppers
or of the colour
of their coats.

The sea,
dark tonight -

lights twinkle on a hill
and there is the sinister sound
of shingle been dragged down
into reluctant depths.

Above,
a foreign-bound jet
flies into the distances
of refreshing differences
and welcome change.

I await,
like a weather-beaten statue
for impregnation.

No angel of annunciation
dares to haunt
the sadness of my dark corner.

Outside,
a mountain-ash in blossom
looks forward to bearing
it's fruit of red berries.

I have difficulty in looking that far ahead.

There was something comforting
in being back in London;
crawling out of Euston station
and climbing into a cab.

The taxi-driver was polite and diplomatic
as I soon warmed up to the idea of beans on toast.