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Nigdaw Nov 2019
I have finally found you
In St. Enodoc Church;
Home is where your heart rests
Not your place of birth.
Summoned by the three o’clock bell
A pilgrim across the eleventh fairway,
Towards a crooked spire that protrudes
Like a drowning swimmer,
Signalling to be rescued from the dunes.


As I enter through the gate
Your headstone greets me with a shout;
A marvel of the stonemason’s art
Explosive script from marbles cold darkness,
Radiates your humour and warmth.
I am not humbled, sad nor afraid
This place is fitting to rest your phrase;
Looking down at where you lie
I try to imagine that lived-in face.


Archibald lies at your head
Old and trusted, faithful ted;
So much heard, but nothing said
All through the years of pressured steps,
To follow where your father led;
But you had other plans and instead
Were drawn to words with rhythmic thread,
That made you Poet Lauriat, a knight
Who finally has found some peace.
My tribute to one of my favourite poets.
Lice H-P May 2017
I went on a date with Abigail from Wales,
now real housewife of Harleston this Belle of Bridgend,
who vacated the valleys for marriage that failed.
Via loveless POF we met in Diss, Betjeman's
'dimmest place of all'.  From her suitor's clammitt
mushroomed blooming cliche from Norwich Market,
which had strived in stuffy, sunny carriage for survival,
but doughty purple gerberas shed not a petal.

Darkeyed Abs was selfproclaimed ditzy witterer
(as schorl as pupils were her carbonado irises).
Selfeffacing, totes Taffy, wellfit witty ditherer;
modest, mumsy, Celtic sexkitten. From Diss,
she drove us in circles to areas even remoter,
cutely got us lost. Upon backseat of her Toyota
gerberas juddered, lost the odd purple petal,
but all my attention was on this anhygoel gal.

Fave date since my old love crashed 'n' burned,
Cupid's evangelism made a lame heart leap!
Attraction and rapport in equal measure earned
a second, no less romantic for being cheap!
We held hands like oldies down the aisle (at Aldi's),
tender tonsil hockey over bigspender coffees
on bench by the mere. Love's pink spark as blatant
as gerberas' purpleness we purred in liplockt agreement.

X-tailed texts from dawn to dusk to discover
something we'd both waited for between Abs & I.
Floodgate touch of third date felt fate to be lovers,
tremulous tryst gushed torrid for the rusty and shy.
With selfconsciousness she'd sometimes squeak in bed
like the springs, and got undressed beneath the duvet,
but as if purple petals coming-storm-shorn, her Red
Dragon-tatted, lemniscate chassis blew me away.

Horizontal hourglass a galactoid goad to caress
- looker like Liz, but with the boyo brio of Burton,
tho' retro 90s vernacular winning quirk less
'Under Milk Wood' and more the orange-Zorro'd turtle,
Michelangelo. Dropboxed me her ******* keys,
elegant lilac-varnished luppers smashed 'Fur Elise'.
Cruciverbalist teachingassistant was my Welsh ****,
but no cryptic clue when gerberas started to wilt.

Abs baked her boy a birthday choco hedgehog,
'Puddington Boar' pun we laboured in flantery email.
But gooey privetpig not main course of our dialogue,
no, I learned she was a Dadi's girl who went off the rails
when his cancer came back for good. Last 'nos da cariad'
haunted her like hiraeth; Abs swore she'd bags a stepdad
for lil' leekeaters, spare them same sense of loss. Green shoots
stalks in vase resembled, save for ditched petals, no roots.

She didn't see offthepeg patriarch to patch a family
in me, dressinggowned putz Diazepampering broken
calon now. No Ant to her Cleo, Gavin to her Stacey
- wherefore the chirpsing 'bout cwtching, softlyspoken
soul-selfies swapped in aprication of darkling embrace?
Abigail just blanks my calls; messages soliloquise in cyberspace.
To so much heart-mulch I bet binned bouquet now rots.
Purple gerbera wheel of fortune landed on she-loves-me-not.

— The End —