The false Autumn when the leafs shed
like your sleeveless bridal gown,
in a cooler than expected September
that gave you goose bumps
and I imagined like a rumour
you had a tattoo of some past love.
For when I said I do
the past should be a spent,
bereft of decayed leafs and longings.
We have our own pinnacle to the stars,
an unspoken trust
and no false reasons
to be other than who we are.

Down Cricklewood and Hampstead ponds
eyeing au pairs from France and Germany
wheeling  their ******* -
madam's pram.
They can hardly wait for their rest days.
Ride along King's Road and smoke Gitanes,
listen to May Blitz on eight track
you don't need Einstein to see your right.
Burning September sun
hot pants a la mode
said the tawny Owl.

In the darkness he felt threatened
the tables turn as he veers away,
ages usher had  nothing on time -
just the haunted side of jade,
the fossils turn of anger
a packed mass of double take
impenetrability stakes the  hills.

The corridors order chaos,
dank and dismal
he alone is free
only the sound of a shrill clap
reminds him the walls are duly served.
Some murmur to feel safe
in the soft tissues of paradox,
where the wise listen to lost sages
whose advice can exonerate
any fevered hatch.

I tried for the rope of ignorance
to jettison seemly hope
but the four winds conspired
to drain  any thought,
whose intention complexes
the placebos already prescribed.
My ex howlers on the phone
she's asking me to give it a rest.
Already I sense she's swallowed,
the part that cannot make amends.
The siphon of good sense
wears thin like a DJ's copy,
should I  kneel down
whilst  finding lost sense?

Verdant comforts,
cleomes and dalhias,
walks by  cobbled paths
Artists and their pedestals
incapsulating these vistas,
therein lays the beauty
we all knew inherent
in each and every of our  dawn risings

The thickets of time
come rain or shine,
scratch the best of years,
old man looking on
do you still count the cricket scores
in your sleep ?
with jumpers  for wickets,
and  blackberries  down country lanes.
Navel looking down
the vastness of your now waist line,
a mark of  your captaincy
receipts of your labour
dangling like a butchers overall.
In your limelight  your broadened smile
releases a relinquished accent
that you could never quite forgive.


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