He said, 'Give me an hour or two.
There's a cafe round the corner.'

Friendly faces.
Instant coffee - black, no sugar.
Just sit and wait.
Or can I write.

Pen and paper cheap enough.
They don't sell inspiration.

Traffic rattling past.
Radio no help.

Thinking.
Time lost.
Time spent.
Time up at last.

He's gone - dead,
memory redefined.
What feelings will survive?
Who will remember?

Formal, frozen inexpressive
faces - relatives and friends,
people I've not seen for years.
Shuffling funeral shoes,
nervous, rehearsing things to say.

Others never seen before,
his networks seem intact,
mine now declined. Perhaps
I don't know he who goes there.
Pass friend.

Woken. Rain agaain.
What did I dream -
hero or sinner,
watcher or actor?

When my mind
colludes with the day
memories corrupt.

No others passing near,
deep breaths feed well-being,
freedom to think, to dream,
anarchuc senses in control.

Listening for the least,
making the most, smelling the green,
tasting the earth, watching the shadows
innocently exercise.

The short beat of an instant.
Reluctantlymoving on.

A shadow on next door's shed.
A life class in nature's art.
A starling's perfect form, no
human hand could imitate.

One quick dart and she has gone,
leaving my life as others have,
and I must contemplate my losses,
like stars crossing a silent gravestone.

He nodded to me when
I moved my silent lips.

Not our memorial but another's.
Warmth in this cold dark garden of the dead.

How many years ago?
But no apology.
Now this tacit truce.
Nearly as good as a scotch,
when he nodded to me.

She called me from downstairs.
There's some gear, medical stuff
outside, two cases, a midwife's
instruments, why put them here?

Don't touch them, you never know
these days, perhaps they're from next
door. She's a midwife, so I hear.
I'll ask them to identify.

They checked and foud her car unlocked.
But why left for us to find?
A joke? A cruel comment,
mocking us who nest no more.

The dark second floor passageway
celebrates its one blessed feature,
a sash window, tarnished panes,
pixels, lit in colours beyond RGB.

An ordered scene of chevron gables,
an art deco arrangement, apex
clasping serpentine rust red pantiles,
pitched protection for the action below.

Steam escaping kitchen windows,
conveying today's menu,
while shining expectant plates await.

A clustered community,
mutering togetherness,
jealousies beneath the breath.

From glistening streamlet stones
the sparkling sun life river
ripples with ephemeral gems,
priceless, richer than diamonds.

Unavailable to the banker's vault.
Unmeasurable by the carat.
Free to anyone who cares to look.
Frames memories of lovers' smiles.

Knees aching climbing the hill,
gras patches, soft landings
among sandstone islands,
dreaming cold clime exploring.

Shoe gripping rocks
of concreted fossils,
weighing on times remains
- triassic scales.

My multiplexed cells,
morphed versions of those
modelled in the strata.

Not master of all I see.
Not master of me.

Some birds can't keep formation,
stretching every sinew,
exhausted by the effort.
Many are blown off course.

Others defying a common purpose,
seek their own promised land,
shedding feathers, cutting tethers,
revising what we understand.

Gudron graced many a viking's visions,
like a Helen or a Guenevere.
But no ray of light could be shone
on her four disturbing dreams.

Until one day a wise kinsman called,
a dream interpreter, who told her
that she would outlast four husbands.
His foretelling came to pass.

But she never wed the man she loved.
He set sail. Gudron remained.
Iceland's first christian nun.

Our roaming ponies lead me to see
the fishing boats off Scalloway,
hustling, bustling activity,
trawling treasures from Norway.

Watching Shetland's secret heroes,
shipping out their weaponry. Mum says,
'small arrows against Germany.
Hush! Don't tell, may Norway's hopes fare well.'

I am a tree - old and knarled.
I shall open my arms,
whisper to my seedlings
just how things might be.

There's that feeling again,
a pressure to return.
It could never be the same,
next time no longer unique.
I'd need something new from it.
For now, I'm waking from
the author's dream.

Unknown soldiers buried under headstones
- not known at this address.
Whetstones to sharpen our sympathies
for that brave, bare-***** generation.

Their photos fade at home. No resting
places document their faces.
Young innocents abroad in Fance
soon aged waiting for their deliverance.

A patch of sunlight
like a slow spotlight
searches the table-top
for stuff to browse.

It warms my clenched hand,
cold-blooded creature,
charms my temper's inner,
all too selfish strand.

Salt waves breaking on the seashore.
Their sound waves shaking our eardrums,
as we sat listening to his tales.
Even wise Canute couldn't hold back
the surging tides of myth.

We were beachcombers, picking up
the flotsam and jetsam of stories,
not history, his stories,
tutorials in delights and dangers.

We've since learned
his stories are truths.
They are myths
that helped us muddle through.

Sit tight. Do nowt. Say nowt.Hear all. See all.
Watch the deadly idiotboard of news unfurl.
Watch the deserving rich desert the poor.

A featureless snowstorm of foreign fear,
eyes glazing over, lacking focus. Fearing
zealots within and without. Without power
of intervention. Beyond comprehension.

Behind my camera their world carries on.
I focus on the narrow scene in front,
a smiling group, their eyes focussed beyond
my shoulders. I try to frame it tight.
They won't keep still for long from engaging
in the rhythms they see beyond.

A never to be repeated moment,
heavily borne responsibility, not just a snap,
a future chance to look beyond reality.

What are they thinking - Oh do get on?
Or what of earth is she wearing?

A picture triggers memories,
some warm, some forgotten.
But who was that at the back?
His name escapes me - a reminder
that memories may be blind.

We wait, not showing nerves for face,
betrayed by unnatural ways.
Quick glances, nods, prayers to gods,
a restless quiet descends on us.

Thoughts dominated, in distress,
no relief in brightly coloured walls,
A nervous joke, tense smiles pretend.
A name is called, one chosen, others stalled.

Trying thinking more hopefully,
but I'm sinking into reverie -
the doorway's open - no escape.

Vast lists of names at cenotaphs
on crosses, in columns of newspapers,
inscribed by those who lived, for those
I never knew so can't remember.

Reduced to uniform remains,
some named 'Soldier of the Great War'.
A greatness in numbers lost,
lives wrecked - measures of excess.

November flags dip, bands march,
standing to mark with silence
violence done to those unknown to them.
Some lament more recent deaths.

The piety of war.

They're bright pink, so not bought for me.
Smooth surfaced petals curling back
like luxury tactile textiles.
Their shape defining shadows
paint a surface symmetry.
Trusting eager stems stretch upwards
but the ceiling sheds no sunlight.
It's March and these are summer roses.
Short stay visas, not cottage flowers.

A week later and there's wilting.
Petals like used tissues wrinkle,
silk dresses rustling to the floor.
Dark green leaves crumble to the touch.
Stilled life leaves fragrant memories.

Behind my camera their world carries on.
I focus on the narrow scene in front,
a smiling group, their eyes focussed beyond
my shoulders. I try to frame it tight.
They won't keep still for long from engaging
in the rythms they see beyond.

A never to be repeated moment,
heavily borne responsibility, not just a snap,
a future chance to look beyond reality.

What are they thinking? Oh, do get on!
Or, What on Earth is she wearing?

A picture triggers memories,
some warm, some forgotten.
But who was that at the back?
His name escapes me - a reminder
that memories may be blind.

An empty street succumbs to one
solitary walker, anonymous
in his raincoat, listening to his
own footsteps, and the camping holiday rain,
dripping. Pigeons mutter disapproval
at this inconsiderate interloper.

His stride shortens, pace quickens, feeling
discomfort at his isolation,
his cold wet feet spattering through puddles.

Grids gurgle, lace curtains tremble.
Mute unseen watchers focus on this
dark figure at the centre of the
taciturn invisible crowd.

Guessing his destination and
motives - a night worker
or burglar up to his tricks -
until his key opens number
twenty-six. Uncountable stealthy
spies retreat and sigh.

We met in the rain, wet, distraught,
too short a moment ot engage,
to wrapped up to become enraptured,
too uncomfortable for comforting.
The rain created our chance meeting,
then dampened our greetings.

The bin lorry had been.
I picked up a fragment
of our neighbours lives,
litter they must have scrapped.

We do not know them.
They're always moving on.
Urban Bedouin,
with a thousand and one
domestic tales untold.

The roughness of unshaven sandstone,
dark from the morning's early growth,
jutting its chin estuarywards,
cold until lathered in the midday sun.

A platform for he who would rule
all Merseyside for an instant,
taking in deep breaths of fantasy
for his private meditation.

Like a maestro on her rostrum
she waves her arms, conducting
a symphony of clouds and sun,
synchronizing showers with sleet and snow.

Or a white witch casting her spells
on Lakeland fells and Pendle Hill,
from Morecambe Bay to Liverpool,
where slave ghosts haunt the cotton coast,
from Merseyside to Manchester,
then chants she changes over Cheshire.

She weaves her isotherms and bars
through the warp and weft of our map,
wreathing those Western Approaches,
where siren sea nymphs shimmer.

I leaned on the rail, stared through
my mental zoom and wondered.
Were ther footprints in the sand
of that island to the windward?

No sign of man. Startled cliff caves
gaped at us, seagulls dived at us,
while whales schooled us and led us away.
We passed by and the North Channel sighed.

Now it's just a floater in my eye,
a landscape's distant daub of grey-green,
a mystery mote that still returns,
but I pass by praising Gaia.

A dusty box full of paperbacks,
a cheap auction haul, an archive
of someone's memories,
old enthusiasms, enchanting
stories, exciting action yarns.

Time was too short to read them again,
more recent ones waiting attention,
unread juniors ambitious for
promotion, leaning out of bending shelves.

These dog-eared browning pages, acid etched
in someone's memory, ready to serve
again, resisting pulping or
landfilling illiterate soil.

Grandad did you used to skim stones
off the pond? Yes the very same one.
We had a champion. His
went right across the other bank.

In life, he hit a log and sank.
Eric nestled in the tall grass.
James made waves and moved on, but Tom
reached the other side and slowly dried.

And Grandad, what about you? Well,
I'm still here aren't I, hoping to
be skimming stones with you, til your
son comes along and I dry up too.

Waves of flames playing the end of pier,
defying choking smoke. Starring in
a dramatic end of show, the ghosts
of bright theatre lights and magic nights.

Last chance performance before the
blackened bones of my childhood stand
empty as salty seaside shells.

In the time of the moon watch, fear
of tomorrow. Horizons close
down. Thoughts and images expand.
What if, where, why, how overcome.

We need to be together, hold
back our worst dreams. Talk becomes
our first line of defence. Pretence?
Other's stories help turn away
our real unreal fears and hopes.

A makeshift camp of hardy souls,
the air is cold but we are free
and hold to our common causes.
Little is said. There's much quiet thought.

The crackling fire makes it all
real, fans our fellowship of feelings,
casting shadows of mysterious
creatures . The flames flay our faces red.

Limbs stiffen, ache, but only eyes move
for fear of breaking our charmed circle.
Minds are moving fast over unknown
futures, over people from the past.

We are progressing upstream, no sighting yet.
Their gods are letting us pass unmolested.
Even the sun beckons us up these blue waters,
but the cliffs are closing in, scarved with the icy
torrents of waterfalls spilling their glacial flux.

In the distance is a great broad path, paved
in crazy glazing, glinting in the sun.
There's no escaping this snare's enchantment.

Surely, they don't take us for their pirate
longboat returning to digorge its stolen treasures.

Somewhere Thor's hammer is at work. We pray
we will be spared his unforgiving anvil,
for we come only with our tourist tribute.

There's something special about a named train,
the Mallard, the Royal Scot,
more romantic than a mere number.
Ours was the Red Rose, pride of LMS.

The London-Liverpool express
flahing North, four-thirty on the dot,
a sight not to be missed, exciting
street players of jacks and hopscotch.

She thundered through the blue brick tunnel,
erupted into the grass-lined cutting,
swallowed our footbridge in smog and sulphur.
The we loyal fans ran home to eat our spam.

Sunday - the weekend's tombstone,
burying the worst of last week.
The silent ringing of church bells,
best suit coffined in my wardrobe.

I see proud parents pushing prams,
grandads toddling after toddlers,
but no young couples promenade,
as we did when teenagers.

Some sought their compensation
in sensational Sunday press.
It's surely generational.
We were schooled for Sunday rest.

Their boat turned in towards us
ready to board our vessel
to take us to their island,
a fastness, craggy, bleak, treeless.

To winter peat fires, gales, darkness,
weird northern tales of gods and trolls,
black nights seared by bright light curtains,
a violent Viking heritage.

A place where cold sea and ocean
overturn the crippled sea stacks,
our lives in the boarding party's
hands and our skilful Shetland pilot.

She's down and all on board are lost
in a country full of hate.
Unnamed bodies lie and rot,
victims of collateral shame.

Like blackbirds pulling worms from lawns,
they pick possessions over,
voiding evidence, spoiling, looting,
while dead voices scream dishonour.

The freedom to fight for your side
or just to fight another tribe.
Fingers pointing, picking fault,
while expert pickers are deterred.
Newsmen gather every word.

He's marching out of step, our poet.
You can see it in their eyes and hear
it in their sighs. They whisper 'snob'.
But he's always gone beyond the norm,
hiding thoughts, hiding loves, faith denied.

Duty to art, duty to country,
duty to comrades bind and confound.
Few try to understand poetic
powers. Few seek the truth inside the man.

He set out to face the slaughter, knowing
death's colours, sounds and smells, writing of waste.
His end a poet's wreath matted red. His last
trench a French canal. His pen impatient

Shop windows dazzle in the sun,
attracting tourist moths with money.
They gape and point and squint and pay.

Behind the glass the ugly cuddly
stare back, glare in disgust at the stack
of dazed outsize heads on parade.

Ranks of captured trolls boil with rage,
their destinies - slobbering kids,
hot rooms, pink rabbits, red balloons.
No match for their cool mountain caves.

Beware these creatures of mischief
and fear. They bear malice - kitsch, occult.
Do not mock them. Stick them on your shelves.
They are our other selves.

Visitors pass from empty bed
to empty bed, like Royals,
silently soaking up the dread
atmosphere with remote respect.

Examining clipboard histories,
rehearsing their medical soaps.
Volunteers answer questions,
the front line troops in trying
to raise our war dead back to life.

Have a care John Willie was not
just a private, not a number,
nor a diagnosis. He was
a person and a brave soldier.

Old photos frame soldiers' pains,
they're wearing posterity masks,
hiding feelings and memories
that lurch back again and again.

Someone must suffer to sate
strong will, greed and power lust.
Assuagement doesn't outlast
the pressure of furious rages.

We fear the hand of a ****** or
a Stalin, perhaps some passionate
servant of a cruel god. So we
fight to the death of the innocent.

I saw her stiffen when he knocked.
She'd had a premonition.
In the hall she paused trembling
by his photo on the wall.

Eddie stood at arms length, silent,
stretching out to deliver the brief
tribute of despair. His glance to me, forlorn.
How long before we too must leave for France?

She asks why I don't speak of it.
I will not. It is a lake of blood
of flesh and bones and limbs and stink.
I fear to sink but will not let go.

I am as one with it. there is no me.
So I must guard its dam, stop any leaks,
for a breach would drown us both, leave nothing
but acid bog, infertile, insensate.

She seeks to cure me, to 'get it off my chest'.
There's no rest. The pressure builds and I need ale
to stem the pains and blames she cannot share.

Ten gassed men. Ten gassed men.
They follow blind in single file.
One turns to spew and break the chain
of shouldered hands and splintered minds.

Ten blind men. Ten blind men.
Each marked for sacrifice,
bandaged eyes and mustard faced,
lungs in foamed embrace.

Ten maked men. Ten marked men.
their eyes see what we can't
in Singer Seargeant's paint,
sights rehearsed and cursed.

I'm buying some new old CDs
to remind me of my old young days.
The time of the trad jazz revival
and the stranger shores of Joan Baez.

Tom Lehrer made chemical magic
and poisoned pigeons in the park.
He promised to go with us when we go,
when we half expected nuclear snow.

Those were the days my friend
that came to an end, but like our parents,
we still feel warmth in summer suns
tht glow in memory's furlough.

I cannot settle in Blighty.
Wounded or not I have changed.

My feelings are with my comrades,
platonic, a complex of simplicities.
We talk only together for no others understand
beyond the old lies and the gas attack of poetry.

My being is incomplete.
I lack the wounds
to disregard life
beyond my skin.

A small particle in a vast
universe, I accelerate
towards my collision
with my mortality.

A fragile loop, a wormhole,
a twisting bending journey,
picking up splintered experiences
through the pale lattice of my senses.

A repeatable experiment
with life, replicated throughout
generations of individuals,
trying to understand their collisions.