Bleak is the day,
cold clouds drift miserably
over sodden fields
where hawthorn hedgerows
weep for summer’s passing.

No sun now to warm the soul,
no longer cheer within
the tumbled cot
where ragged sheep stand
and shelter behind old walls.

Collie sniffs damp air,
his  breath steams and curls
as we secure the gate and make
our long, sleet-ridden
way homeward.

Tonight we shall sit by the fire,
he and I, dreaming
of snow white lambs,
cornflower skies and
warm, sunlit meadows.

Meantime there’s crackling to chew
and whiskey tots to keep away the chill,
for we both know
the Green Man sleeps,
and Winter is upon us.

Shut away from public view
behind high walls and landscaped gardens,
Antiseptic wards where beds
have strong restraints, and none are pardoned.
Seldom are the inmates given
visits by their family members,
those that have forgotten kinfolk
cling to life like dying embers.
Who would wish to see some brother,
giggling, imbecilic, drooling?
Who would wish to see some sister,
***** round her ankles pooling?
Then there are the psychopaths,
the freaks deformed, and those possessed;
sedatives and exorcism
pacify the most distressed.
When the sun goes down no shadows
lengthen in stark corridors.
Never-winking neon tubes
ensure that light’s forever yours.
Even so when night has fallen
always come the sounds of Hell.
Slamming doors and running footsteps,
screams and shouts - a tolling bell.
Lost souls roaming empty stairways,
disembodied spirits howling.
Bodies stiff with medication
twitch whilst cotton sheets be-fouling.
And when dawn returns to shine
upon this Godforsaken phylum,
Nature wipes a tearful eye
and grieves for mankind’s bleak asylum.

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 his 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 brothers 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.

Saturday evening, it's early, so early,
before all the bright young things come out to play;
5.30 down in the pub by the bus station,
paintwork is peeling, it's seen better days.

Up by the juke box a man in a faded
old jacket stands baffled, a coin in his hand.
Names flash before him in gaudy confusion,
he can't find The Searchers, his favourite band.

Three women gossip and shriek by the window
where pale light illuminates glasses of gin;
Elsie's a pensioner, Maureen's a widow,
and Dot buys a round from her last bandit win.

Up at the bar big fat Ronnie's demanding
they switch on the TV t o see if he's won;
Got a hot tip and he stuck on a tenner,
he'd better not tell her indoors what he's done!

Smell of stale ***** permeates from old Billy,
he's been drinking Guinness since quarter to three;
last night he was nicked by the cops on his way home
for taking a leak underneath a park tree.

All human life is arrayed in the bar room,
it's where people come when they've nowhere to go;
seeking companionship, happy the hour,
when somebody talks to them that they don't know.

I know nothing of your world.
I live in perpetual darkness
beneath the strata of a million years.

Sometimes I sense others
as they slowly pass me by,
but I care not for their presence.

In the eyes of their blinkered science
I am merely a blind, white creature
swimming towards extinction.

Sand buried, parched skull
exposed by excavation;
jaw gaping in silent
death's head yawn.

Is eternal sleep so
excruciatingly boring?
Or do you instead
scream across the centuries:
"Leave me be!"

Impotent rage as trowel
scrapes upon bone!
The memory desecrated
in the cause of science.

Desolate rock-strewn mountains
lit by cold sunlight

Prayer flags flap in
ceaseless Himalayan winds

An armless, broken Buddha smiles
from a desecrated temple floor