As free as a paper bag
in the wind
As welcome as a sun rise
after night
As refreshing as a wave
breaking cold
And as capitivating as a spider
making silk
That’s you

Tell me please
does the grey granite faced
northern heather scarp
or the smooth enchanting
Carrara marble cherub
move you to awe?
Does nature only
wintered weathered
sheer and simple
eclipse the man made
man handled
alabaster angel?

Bleak beauty

Tell me my friend
does your head turn
as the high cheek-*****
short haired
practical passes
a flash of scarlet
lipped?
Or do you arrest
as a foundation creation
glosses across your horizon
loping on heels and too knowing?

Bleak Beauty

I must ask you
my brother
When you cause to sleep
does your angel
appear
and does
the gentle
perfection of her
supra-sternal notch
ever stay with you
til morning?

She was intricately
deliberate
with textures
& attitudes
& colours
combined

Conciously
random
when bathing benignly
in media
materials
& moments

Strong
yet so vulnerable
in just the right
measure
ethereal
but grounded

Beautiful
blue wide eyes
opening
to order
& closing
to sleep

Satisfying seasonal
sensibilities
bushy bright
and so dressed
with ceremony
and love
being celebrated centre
of attention
baubled and draped
with gaudy glitter
trusted with gifts
but only for a day

As mood and
circumstance change
no longer loved
or needed  
left to thirst
age and die
coldly discarded
in a road side gutter
thin and losing dignity
then shredded into mulch
or hacked to ugly pieces
and burned
so goes another commercial
Christmas

A myriad
of subtle stuff
a deep and long sigh
a strangely
well chosen tune
considering his history
the right wine
(full bloodied)
in the right light
(half)
with the right aroma
(lavender and ocean)
And view
(a sunset)
With sounds and sights
(gulls and grasses)
and the touch of
thick well worn cotton
culminating in a memory
I keep close

Dysfunctional
this is not functional

Functioning badly
at best
not clear why
of course
until after the
functioning has ceased
long after

Uncle John’s gone
Heart
on Sunday
in his shed
He left his stamps
to Sam
He’ll sell them
and his neatly folded
nicely worn
shirts and sensible slacks
will soon appear in Age UK
And Auntie Lynn
will maybe have
twenty years
a widow