Are your eyes as plaintive
as your made up face,
reclining on this polished chair
could a few words make the difference?
between wishing something true
or a lost dream leaching on the still

Questions  cluster like  rain clouds,
it's often easier  to hide under autumns anonymity,
and sling this old  life into recluse.
Yet how could I slip away
and  honestly believe there was a reason?
What if the promise of tomorrow was marshalled today?
to be offered flourishing hope,
only by renewal does one  give,
unless  my heart  is snagged
it  comes back  to changes.

No blinding light only the wariness
of the daily fracture
Croydon how I wish it was goodbye
you lost your voice  a long time ago.
I  remember how our played  out rendezvous
stripped away the pretense
I have often thought of candle light as a masquerade
flickering like a contestant
and the only cure is the drifting Coombe Woods
where I  can hide under those autumnal leaves,
finally letting it go.











.

The shafts of phosphorus hit the jagged barricades  
no sense was made from the order
seven by seven deep
flanks of men
was not a tidy sum
their exhaustion was pliable
the order cut like a  knife
by the mornings crescendo
the stark landscape exhibited
the remnants of the infantryman
was plan to observe
they had hardly set foot from base

at the artists room gazing
she imagines she is a model.
I feel for her insecurity
with mousy curls
and mascara inexpertly applied
Her green scarf at times almost
tugs at her throat
as if it had a will of its own
almost pressing what's your problem,
but exactly what is this notional problem?
torn between a wish to blend in
and cover oneself in the shade
envisaging prying eyes and bruising hands
the intended model drew a blank
she could be her own steeley person

Lavina beckons but can never go out to play
on void days her Mother escorts her,
red ribbons in her hair
and lace to impart her complicit purity
oh Mother what  have we jointly planned?

the heirloom runcible spoon lies buried in  sand,
the tarzana kid has been accused of carelessness,
by such means
his holiday is horribly trampled,
this chided summer youth
now walks the plank,
its all pirates on the dorset coast.
Parents out of order
more bucaneer than relish
and Aunties only now kinder
by learned rote.

The rain always comes from Wales
and the river tern flows fast,
we're told 1066 started it all
the Castle and promulgated plantation design
the rise and  fall
time and time again.

The  rivulet carries your dreams
as will the  cherry  blossom,
an eddy of  hope will  serenade
before a certain loss shorns your patience,
of  a  love lost
and to  realise  its only  channel is  a seashell
the  sound  before  the  rivulet
where  once  you  were the  liege
but  the  coarse fisherman's daughter
left with the  whittle of a voyage
can only  laugh at  the  serenity of  your  suggestion
the assumption behind  your  dream

Iris and Blanche,
retired West end Usherettes,
Joint treasurers to the benevolent society,
their own Christmas story flickers ,
fearing  poverty, melted candles
for  6d - they buy the job lot,
worn, threadbare carpets cover the hallway.
Seemingly unmoved, they try to forget
this turn of fortune.

Upheaval is now the perpetual downturn.
They’ve availed themselves to
missing out on life's gravy train, 
and been met with gas light frugality.
The sunken mattress tumbles across the  wooden floor,
casting shadows over,
yesterday's hubris.

I cannot see her being a troubadour
there's too much work to be done,
she only hangs around the fringes
lacking  that inner feel,
once she sang the Worlds Requiem
but her interpretation lacked punch
had she the wherewithal needed?
Her jaded baggage indeterminate now
lugs her capered turn.

Bathed in fields of  hummingbirds
an elderdown of  spring  purveys
weaves nexus  to ancient stone walls
where tomorrow's wood elves
dressed in firestorm blue
wait
bequeathing  a  symphony  of  resistivity
a causeway plied with dreams to harvest,
wills the east winds high.

Watching shooting stars pull and wane,
barbed hope fences us in
wailing  against wilted hands,
easy to scorn the universe
by conjuring the moons scythe
to chide daylight,
unwisely burdened with a sigh
a thankless enmity
strips the hidden away .

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

The  Contra jour man hid his  grimace,
watching the Punch and Judy show
with vignettes of spectators in like denial,
he  clenched his fists
fearful of the spotlight
yet he could not surrender pain

Eventually he try to break the  rules
and heal underneath.
Yet his crucifix a new seaside town
with a floodlit vaudeville
presenting songs of  belied memories
to which he can only  raise a mug
of  out of season white burgundy
apparently leading the dance  nowhere.

Joyous in her mind
a pinnacle of  cherishment
meadow seeds in sweet  abandon
laced with uncensored willingness
gives life her mound to build upon.

boundless neverhood pockets
the lost crumbs
of comfort too often,
servitudes discordant words
quivers by termitys  foil.

A tarnished trumpeter never redeems
future joy's subtllety
the limelight challenge casts yesterdays myrth,
as an an old man cries
for the lost passages of his never written diary,
as the ceiling of his dreams unrepaired
quivers by  dusks lament

laminated headlands batter  
the wilderness of superficality,
scanned bucolic butterflies flutterings ,
have lost all sense of season
except for the observation posts,
speculating fresh awe
from the baying guests
whose insatiable fantasies
takes nature a step towards  the adultered.

Adieu I will curl away
and reawaken ten years from now
like an unwitting coil
I spring  some confounded earnestness
of built up creaks and misalignments ,
serenade me not,
for discordant pipers foil
their sepia tinged pedestraness.

Their presence sketches like acid,  
almost pythonesque  
point blank opening bus  windows
in the chill of the British  winter
only because  their  ,
over clothed shopping sweat
induced the delirium,
stares the weary answers why not !
If I could only notate your wrongful expression
to sweep away your feigned surprise
the world would  right itself.

A whole new light means
your spectrum rests indeterminate
silence alone  cannot  disguise
the sense of foreboding,
darkness parades,
platitudes never vivid
a plinth to past  glories
shorn whose rueful  possibilities
shuns new growth.

Awareness drifts by like stories carried by sandals;
Travelers too few to carry conviction
tarry in sand,
like a neon after thought.
Relics of crystallised fables parade;
on non roaming pathways
an eerie silence that dealt time
is only fortuitous in whispered light

Announce your atlier  
and water colour for me there ,
rest alongside clear streams,
and liffting off  those willows
from azure skies,
also blot those prying cormorants,
shade translusence with your deft touch
tantalizingly visualizing
if its autumn or winter
you wish to attest
your art to.

Her ruffled hair and trailing headphone
she stands amongst the seated
perhaps impervious to inconvenience.
Her momentary gaze out of the darkened window
sheds her personality
she meet life on an even keel
thoughtful
honest and assured over
never intending to surrender her
next stop Battersea Park.

in the rubble of our hearts
we are surfeit,
barren edifices decry
past treasures; now forlorn-
forgotten.
those unwitting  trojan horses
long usurpers  of discord,
survey their kingdom whilst
a few survivors dream of spiritual renew
in this darkened unpredictable place.

Coiled beneath a sleepers rafter,
atoning for the numbness
chosen, not felt.
I burn with a dark desire
to achieve an infinite satisfaction,
paraphrasing every minuscule sin
not fortified,
every schema variegated.

Before the decade spat us out,
on our bicycles we had options,
the electric blaze truly sped by
with the years
and Dad's knew their sons interests
lay in Rock, where musicians in de rigueur denims
sign posted the alpha roost
and we all had dreams of blondes,
their beacons crafting
secrets and desires about growing up.
This was the surest way
to catch an education for life

the rugged light stumbles like a foal
the juxtaposition of choice plays
between right and wrong
I recall the cup of forthrightness
infringed inherently
with the sad lady,
for what was said
was not even fair yesterday.
Watch my shoreline sand prints ebb
and decide on forgiveness if you wish.

the bundles of mulched cannas  thickens like Autumn's bracken
and the orange hues of the acer
plays hide and seek amongst the glowing skies
solitary magpies forever  speculate caution
as overgrown paths beckons the occasional stranger.
Contre jour light frames my mission
at once I understand the message
a seasonal transformation
pitches the earnestness of renewal.

Had the world enough;
counting daises and peas in the pod,
and the idea that lovers never stop believing
or shady nights refrained,
in pristiness  abound
theres nothing to lose
in the power until now uncontested

beneath the dying trees
we kicked our unlettered sins to touch
and blushed as shamelessly as we laid
our inglorious resignation,
for our ashes required a stoke
to unkindle others wantoness

The winds of hope blow through
the boarding house's corridors
sober, listening to John Kay's "Easy Evil"
having finally rinsed my glass of Tennessee whisky,
that once flowed sojourn down stream.
With the best of  intentions,
hell's as current as the midnight lodger,
presiding in room 207,
her absinthe addiction
driven me to distraction
some are marooned on  the rich mud silt of life,
but I need to edge towards resolution.
a packed suitcase
whose once dreams hazed,
finally vies beyond the rivers edge.

Autumns crisp veneer is never right,
duffle coats and borrowed scarves
cost fashion.
But less self consciousness
and inner glare will
release the light.
And let those leafs serenade
a russet honeycombe
of dark sherry and candlelight
in a whisper.

on cloudless days we besmirch the suns reign
the spirit hankers for Autumn
the baltic coast apposite
launches thy being by the northern skies,
a trinity of light  leds to the caucasus plains
to reveal Edens gardens
and locate cultivars of apple
and vine
to graft onto our dying seasons

The mirror of the  soul
a spectre of sepia
besides an unassuming smile.
How could we ever save ourselves
when the gold turns to silver
on parched lips we were led
to where dahlias  preside
in buckets of sand,
albeit temporal
How can we ever be said to boast?

Theres a victim acting
only in her curves has she sufficed.
The wrong man with fists
his avowed promise
you couldn't live without him,
despite being the third  party
th­e other woman you remain -
so across the Atlantic
barricading your dreams
acting for the first time with perfection
but the baggage  returns
the beaten path,
your  bed of self  destruction.

It could not be better than
to discover the music of the early 70s
It was so more than Prog
the singer songwriter hold his sway
under the tree cultivated by Bob
and his one time bandmates the Band,
gave a template back to basics
The Beatles shadow set the standards
in creativity.
before Glam rock lifted the lid,
leading a fallacious path into Punk Rock
and our music savious were truly shot.

The Prince of Heaven rotates the truth.
Stacked in whispers
hush words scrambles the floor,
arcane winds blame the new;
preservation lusts moribund  moonlight
as magic circles catch the Sun.

Time for inroads
and watch me grow into a confession
to unhide.
There's room for you too,
grasping the infinity and movement
the gamble of the moon speaks,
luneria flowers to mark the winds cause
and learn words giving belief
wiser than us after all.

The thrush fly from up north
locomotives leave at 05.20 precisely,
they follow weeping  miners
with ballletic dreams
sipping  Burton ale.

The hat did not make the boy
they even wanted to select their prefered neighbours.
The dusty unused courtyard
long buried prayer books loitered.
If there was a God he was already made
in their own image,
insular  and grunt.
To surrender to their leaden aviary
the cage wouldn't need bars,
archaism would ablute the soul
the world outsiders
a plank walkway the only means.

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.