Vermilion skies pass me by
and into the night the chasm opines
an imagined Ferris wheel at a carnival
turns contra against smothering bindweed,
is this a metaphor for confusion ?
a turnaround of sorts
and with a habitual doff of my hat I bid
to draw this recurring dream to an end,
the naked view now seems surreal.
Should  I then hear the adjacent marching feet of others
surrendering their names in juxtaposition.

In the wilderness
I had often thought of  cardboard boxes,
bitter tears may have coated
these my feelings,
but breaking out is such a  forlorn hope.
The  prevailing regimen uncouples my spirit
and no wiser
is a  mending heart  than the crestfallen?

Memories of my  beautiful Summer
walks down Blendennis lane with
my Mother Brug, Aunts  Kate and Maggie
and my beloved  sheepdog  Shep.
The smell of the new mown hay
cornfields reaching maturity,
the whiff of wildflowers and heather everywhere,
breathtaking on a late summers evening.

Never to be experienced, anywhere in the World
Those were the bygone days, past the bog of bulrushes,
the cattle chewing their cuds in the fields beyond.
I wish my Shep could race and meet me  now
like he did on my  way home  from school
when I appeared at the white  spot in the  Lane.

They only wanted  blue and red
but white unapologetic  forces her colours,
wise she will never wash her  pride.
Enticing a love affair with the tri-colour,
dangling the years
whereupon cadres and ditches
shimmer the trenches of the  mind,
options too limited  now to  matter
walks  nonchalantly on bleeding stumps

Torrents of wind, strewn upon man and beast
an irradiant moment terses through the veins
howls bewilderment speculates, 
attempting to overthrow the instant,
home is a short shrift distance
her only resonance is a leitmotif
that hail the late seasons repentance.

across the canals we gallantly roamed
our engine horse drawn
the quilt of the bubolic defines us,
basking under hazy willow
the scattering of cowslip and orchids
purveyed through the bankside,
with the staggered moon
pacing our miidnight dreams
amongst croaking frogs
and the knowing water vole

I see a tribal emnity
between the boules club and ornithpologiists,
laying  siege to the bus station
as if they were on satins
old enough to know better
but still besotted with the twig of youth