A short eight line poem
promise of things unsaid
or complete in its simplicity
stretching my imagination.

Do I read between the lines
try to search the poet's thoughts?
I cannot help but sour my own
sown like weeds among his vines.

A light tea before her reading
so I can focus on her words
seek out their meaning
refrain her rhythms
define her rhymes
listen for her killer lines.
A music too rich to revise.

Are those tiny strands really me?
They say each set is unique
but no one is anonymous
like an inherited trace book.

I carry my history with me.
No wonder I'm overweight
celt viking or anglo-saxon
or two out of three a cross breed.

I even passed this burden to my kids
left slivers all over the place
though I was always told to tidy up.

They only talk at night
all else is quiet
facing each other
at more than two sword lengths.

Opposite sides of the House
on opposite walls they parley.
Seeing them during the day
you'd swear they smiled above you.

Wishing you cou could have eavesdropped
learned more of what they think.
They stand aside from you in that gallery.

A peaceful morning
snuggling within myself
piecing together feelings
of well-being - inner cleaning.

The day viewed from a telescope's
objective lens suppressed at length.
Multi-screen imagination
until incursions grey the frame
mediating reality.

He had his vision,
wouldn't listen.
Mother sad,
father angry.

He despised advice.
Discounted the price.
Mother sad,
father angry.

Shunned his closest friends.
Wouldn't make amends.
Mother sad,
father angry.

Finally he went,
all arguments spent.
Mother and father despondent.

Robin's flashing safety
coat's in flight, defying cats.
The pigeon squadron's wheeling,
awaiting a blackbird 'All Clear'.

Then they all come, perfect landings,
on grass and path and seed feeder,
a thieving, weaving, twittering scrum,
saleroom scurrying, juggling, grumbling.

Starlings gardening,
earthworms squirming,
magpies spooking,
pretence pets.