The lark awakened,
she took to the sky
between the pylons
singing sweetly,
her notes were clear,
fluid and beautiful
her tune unchanged,
since the world was young
she finished her song,
and flew off to find breakfast
unaware that nobody heard
after all,
she was just a small brown bird

The sins of nightingales are always forgiven
as pardon for their music,
that sweet song which brightens the world

Peacocks should never be absolved
their cry is harsh and their beauty skin deep
they believe they do no sin at all

We close the curtains on a world less sure,
than yesterday, and all the days that went before
evening comes, and with it falls the night
unyeilding darkness drinks the light
and in its presence fades the sight
of garden gate and fence and lawn
in an anxious world which waits for dawn

****** off and get a coffee, leave me in my chair
alone to watch the waves and bones
and the fractured wind-washed water stones
a canvas canute,  imperious I command the tide,
go back I say, come forth no more,
I speak therefore you must abide
and stand astride as the rushing waters flee my hand
retreating from the scatted margin land  
they fear my wrath, and plot amongst themselves in bubbled froth
regrouped replenished forces gather forth to rush and overtake my seat
wet and bloodied but unbowed I hold my ground and kick my soaking feet
neither of us is willing to admit defeat

Barn door
swings gentle in the wind
and as it swings it sings a creaking hymn
each rusting metal part contributes something to the tune
no caustic gale has swept this sodden farmyard free of life
time has cleared this plot, severing today from times long past
those who lie in the churchyard up the valley know full well
what years have brought this building down
with windows mostly out,
battered eyelets all shot through with jagged holes
as if the house itself had lost its stocky stone built soul
crouched low, set firm against a nagging breeze
sagging ivy wags a finger in its gaping maw
that bent and twisted raw bone knuckled door
and finds its way through rotten skirting board and floor
to lift the planks and venture to the cellar dug below
toppled from beneath, by damp and rot
where pale and sickly mushroom flowers grow
fat and pink among the creeping green
a place that better days have definitely seen

Letters in the blood
a hardwired poets brain
built for words not numbers
language flows within each vein

You were always the fruit tree
new light of promised hope in spring
sweet pears within the summer of your days
the flowing wine of a full ripe season
and when autumn came
it reached with shadowed fingers
to pluck you from the wall
you stood alone against the wind
while we your living leaves were scattered
root and branch, stripped base and bare
it was then we watched you fall
there was heart in you my friend,
you gave your all