It was awfully considerate
of him to be here,
and beneath dreaming spires
he knew he had nothing to fear

Eating apples and oranges,
druids and dwarves
riding bicycles everywhere,
milling about on the wharves

The elephant’s fizzing
away in the park,
leaving Arnold to play
all alone with himself in the dark

Oh Emily, Emily,
where is she now?
Riding Julia’s nightmare,
or milking the pantomime cow?

The scarecrow stands waving
goodbye to all that,
and in seven slow stages
old Lucifer puts out the cat

Aunt ****** empties
the ashtray away,
and says how she’ll miss all
his idiosyncratic ways

The Winnower sorts all
the wheat from the chaff,
and with a spin of the grindstone,
the Madcap will have the last laugh

I walked through dank and dripping woods,
a sullen stream for company;
whilst thunder rolled in distant hills,
for all the world was dead, save me.

Oppressive summer heat made sweat
drip from my brow as on I trod;
dark rolling clouds, humidity
had stifled birdsong, silenced God.

Long miles to go, light fading now,
a moss-grown bridge came into view;
to cross it must I make my way
back home to those I loved and knew.

Fern-framed, I saw her standing there
with raven hair and pale white  face;
her shapeless dress merged with the mist
that rose in tendrils from the race.

I started crossing that old span,
and walked towards her, brave and bold,
yet shivered as we passed mid-stream;
“Good day” she said - my blood ran cold.

And when I reached the other side
I turned to see where she might be;
but there was no one anywhere,
for all the world was dead, save me.

Life is a gift.
Gratitude for what remains
Is more helpful than resentment
For what’s been lost.

Our days are wicked short
And terribly beautiful.

All we’ve got is this one breath,
And if we’re lucky,
We get another.

“They believe everything they read,
but they don’t understand a word of it”

yeah, right . . .

“They say the world was created in six days,
but never worked a day in their lives”

that’s so true . . .

“They say that Earth is the centre of everything,
but they’re at the centre of their own universe”

so I’m told . . .

“They say a lot of things,
but they’re so busy talking that they don’t listen”

guess so . . .

“I’m telling you, Lucifer,
we should’ve stuck with the lizards”

….. and with that God sadly put down the phone.

Hot summer evening and out on the patio
Nikki grins widely and flicks back her hair.
Red wine drips down (stupid Mikey spilt pouring!)
and pools on the stones down by Nikki’s feet, bare.

Mikey has gone off indoors for some smokes now,
leaving her smiling alone in the dusk;
Tom Petty sings about love from the hi-fi
and Nikki considers a long night of lust.

Mikey is back now, his hand on her shoulder,
cigarettes flicker in soft twilit breeze;
out of the shadows a moth flutters wildly,
dancing erratic near crackers and cheese.

Nikki dramatically shrieks like a schoolgirl,
brave Mikey swipes with his blue baseball cap!
Down goes the moth in a torrent of swearing,
battered to death on the neatly trimmed path.

Into his strong arms the killer sweeps Nikki,
carries her off to the bedroom above;
there in a wine-fuelled frenzy of passion,
Mike and his girlfriend make candlelit love.

Radio news on the following morning
tells of a fire in a suburb of town.
Talking head says that the couple had no chance;
died in their sleep as the whole place burned down.

Out where the tape cordons off the burnt ruin,
smoke mingles with windblown ashes and dust;
Nikki and Mikey are joined with the moth now,
blown down the street by a hot summer’s gust.

Hail squalls petulantly
against leaded windows,
as down in the midnight garden
unkempt brambles scratch
at cold night winds.

In the abandoned nursery,
where faded draught-blown drapes
brush dusty toy-strewn floorboards,
a broken rocking-horse moves faintly.

Upon a moonlit stage
where innocence long since died,
a legless teddybear stares
at a blind rag-doll.
A ***** harlequin
slumps drunkenly forward;
a crippled spinning-top
rusts beside a scattered jigsaw,
as mocking rhymes echo
insanely down the years.

Crockery elopes with cutlery,
suicidal mice run out of time,
blackbirds die oven-baked,
and the little boy laughs
to see such fun
as Old King Cole
steals your adult soul.

My ragged wings are black as night, my eyes are cold as sin;
the crows and rooks and magpies and the jays, my nearest kin.
I am a rogue and vagabond, I raid the nests of Man;
I’ll steal their golden trinkets and I’ll take whate’er I can.

Some fools have tried to trap me, and yet others have their guns,
but they who think me stupid little know what’s to be done.
Some others think to bribe me for to leave their crops alone;
I swoop in with my squadron and we take their kernels home!

To superstitious folks who see me perch upon their roof,
a new born babe will follow, for that is the Devil’s truth.
Yet down your chimney should I flit, beware the Reaper’s blade!
Within the year cold death shall come to master or to maid.

So look outside your window now and see what I may do,
If on the weather vane I sit, then rain shall come to you.
But if me and my brothers all do chatter, jack and caw,
then pray we are mistaken, for we tell of coming war.