Sunday papers and a sit in bed
nothing needs saying that hasn’t been said
we can read the thoughts in each other’s heads
you drink your coffee, and I sip my tea
who ever knew we could ever be
happy not speaking, just you and me

Green figs in a bowl
and a chequered cloth,
I breakfast on birdsong

Breakfast at my table
on a damp warm morning
with birds in the trees
each fluttering one a note which sings,
on high and leafy hidden wings
that beat to lift in heavy air
chained to the ground
I cannot share
their joy in endless headlong flight,
that freedom brought of skies delight
and so for now, to me it seems,
I must content myself with dreams

The rain
when it came
was not unexpected
soft at first
then larger drops
falling music
dancing puddles
ignored in a rush of passers by
I stayed to the end
and heard it all
that orchestra of sky

Take the love that dare not speak its name
reduce your thoughts to memories,
lock them deep
hide them in the silent vault that is your heart
smother the singing bird you want to be
snap its feathered neck, quick smart
smother any signs of life
poor wounded thing,
better it was never born,
if it cannot fly, then it should never be
kinder dead than never, to fledge and leave the tree
smash your heel and end it now,
for it cannot be set free

Skin needles, made from rain
threaded hope, that stitches pain
peel away the Monday morning
a coffee scented cloudy dawning,
the existential grey clad ******
of a quintessential English summer

Birds have no shape,
they are everything
and they are nothing
wind and rain and trees
the scent of the breeze
tall dried grass
seeds which land
on full and fallow ground
an ocean heart that beats within us all
the sound of nature’s call
whatever the future holds
when shadows fall
and footsteps are dust
there will be birds