The placid blue lake
runs deep with riddles
I could never fathom.

though distant
the ural wolf
bites deeply

arctic hares
burrow
under the grey
wolf's gaze

Nascent budding rose –
Crimson swirl of gravid depth;
Blooms in ****** pall.

Solar flush of youth –
Petals parched as sandy dunes;
Crumbling into dust.

Flailing arms in minestrone soup,
grasping ropes in gloopy slop.

Slippery snakes in slippy hands;
bobbing bereft in beefy broth.

Croutons swirl - a death knell eddy
clumping in a bread bricked tomb.

...snowman.

Ruddy jowls and
coal dark mouth,

its coiled, springy
conk sniffs.

Beach ball bodied with
scarf belted at the waist,

its aluminium legs rooted
in black cartoon clogs,

wobble underneath
a crab topped tall hat.

tumbles through
tenebrous caves;
slow erosion
lost in clacking
echoes -
ephemeral
puffs of dust.

I thought you
were rusting
in the blue
felt-lined box.

Neat dovetail
joints framed
your bespoke
resting place.

But, brass
doesn’t rust,
it only stews like
over-brewed tea.

And tarnished,
arthritic valves
no longer wheeze
a tune from you.

I wonder,
if you ever
graced a noble
stage,

or simply
bled in the
hands of a
dilettante.

I hope for
the former,
I couldn’t
bear the latter.

The wardrobe

stands

empty,


panels of pine

no longer

brushed by the fabric of you.


The doors close,

sealed by a magnets kiss -

a mannequin's tomb.

From the beach
We see a
Wind farm wave.

James calls them
Windmillows,
And I smile.

Now he calls
These windmills,
And I frown.

Soon they will
Be turbines -
I shall grieve.

amber leaves
on hayloft roofs
glisten with
algid pearls

Vanilla fudge
drips into
treacle toffee,
then the honey
furnace glows
in my psyche,
leaving a brain
of ashen coal.

Five-years-old and school
shoe shopping, I saw a sparkling pair.

They won't last five
minutes my mother declared.

Although puzzled
and disappointed -

clearly and distinctly, I knew
my mother would not deceive me.

Squeezed like toothpaste
into the world,

minty womb fading,
rinsed and spat out.

Pines prickle ruddy cheeks,
I tickle itchy peaks.

Winter's icy fingers snap rime clad branches;
dragging splintered boles to a hoary moonlit hinterland.

Dripping fire,
the oak's toes
are nibbled
by rimy teeth.

The old man's breath
tears russet leaves
from ragged books.