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

Spring grass to pierce my bones
Moss will stitch my winding sheet
Sweet death of winter

Listen cat,
make up your furry mind
in or out?
I cannot guess which way you are inclined

Pile them up
stack stone on stone
hold each one
bone on bone
feel the rocks
between your fingers
rough and smooth
the feeling lingers
weigh each pebble
in your hand
lift it from the shifting sand
let it fall from where it came
to a rock it's all the same
one tiny part of an endless game!

Good brown earth
cracks and folds and tips and tumbles
rolls and flips and slides and crumbles
moved in space by a tractors churning,
bitter specks of last year’s burning
buried deep in a seasons turning
where once the plough horse trod with grace
heavy feet at a slower pace
there lives a fertile planting space
of furrowed ridges, rips and rows
and the hop and hollow of taunting crows

A world that is stilled
sparkling water without fizz
trapped in the bottle

Windows out,
touched by time’s cruel mouth
nibbling smoke blackened corners,
wheezing gently
whittled roof long gone,
bound by tangled thread
drawn from the looms it held,
past is present, present is past
forever intertwined
memories lost, unheard stories
former glories
very rarely brought to mind

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

To amuse myself
I will dance with the mirror
pas de deux pour un

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

Waving sails in red and white
catch the breeze and early light,
shiny rich men's toys of the ocean
dance in lazy undular motion

Twirl and sidestep

Sidestep twirl

A solemn dance

Over the abyss

Among the tins

And the discount bread

Partners weave

From afar

Marking endless time

In measured silence

A six feet waltz

Of the newly ******

Turn back the clocks
Countless ears who heard the restless call of spring
Will never dance to winters tune
The hands of time are stilled
For them the clock has stopped
On this year
And all others
This dying year
Has become a year of dying

Could falling angels

cast from heaven one by one

create as much pain as we have done?

Anglerfish anglerfish
you clever lightbulb dangler-fish

The big wheel turns
grinding to be sure, but certain slow,
we don’t need reminding
we all know,
it regulates the rhythms and the seasons of our lives,
we feel its ticking heart, in everything we do
a constant subtle changing
gently rearranging as the year is running through,
no drama
no three act play
no dying of the light
no endless darkened days
not yet,
oh it will come, for come it must
but just for now it’s hazlenuts and
mellow rays of sun through patchwork trees
a chill of revolution
and the hint of something burning
slowly fading on the breeze

Word spaghetti, thin lies that twist and tease
studded with tiny meatballs of truth
covered in a thick sauce of deception
and served with too much cheese

One life,
one light to shine in our allotted hour
a single strutting chance upon the stage
a single line writ large upon the page,
a chance to love, to live, to give
and what is more,
one entrance and one exit, no encore

The early garden
brings a deeper peace
than any I have known
no sound but wind on leaves
no neighbours barking dog,
for even he must sleep,
his daily yappings not begun
new air, fresh and clean
whispers soft among the green
a drowsy yawning background hum
a space to sip one’s tea
and taste the morning yet to come

My old cat in spring
twitches his ear at passing bees
and sniffs at the lavender scented breeze
then he warms his belly and starts to purr
with a little less winter stuck to his fur

A scurrying wind is a tidy wind
a helpful picker of discarded litter
things that we should have put in the bin
but it has no bag to put them in

A diver looks at a whale
he marvels at the mighty beast
so vast he cannot see around
and kicks his tiny swimming legs
to see what he has found
he navigates the monstrous mouth
the wrinkled eye,
which sees him floating tailwards
an insect in his view
and then it will ignore him
whales have better things to do

Robin, butterfly, chaffinch calls
wisteria climbs on ancient walls,
magnolia, daffodil, snowdrop scramble
carrion crows parade and amble,
in the garden near the maze
early spring brings warmer days

Pansexual
love the person not their gender
surrender to love in huge amounts
because that’s what counts

Blood within my skin
liver pluck and lights
appendix to beating heart,
every part, wants you
needs you to know
I am ready for us to begin,
it is only my tongue
a restless useless thing
which cannot tell you so

Faded linen
which smells of straw,
and a shift of corn
in the back of a drawer,
is all that is left
of the girl next door,
she stayed a while
from June to September,
and left fresh berries
to help us remember

Mountains are folded napkins
laid out on the cloth of the world
remnants of a picnic
that finished long ago

Candles light the dark
They illuminate a room
So monsters can see

People come
they bring mourning flowers
I don't know where the vases are
that was always your job
where did you put them
I cannot find them
not under the sink
or in the shed
they are lost
like you are
and I need them
because flowers are everywhere
and you are not

Winter's yellow hound
snores
bats an ear in sleep
with ancient claws
drool from his gums
pools on his paws
as he yawns
and thaws

On a velvet night,
so silent and heavy
that the breath of life itself seemed an intrusion,
Vincent smiled and bid the world goodbye,
he closed his eyes
and left to join the landscape of his paintings

You have come
good
I want to dance
whirl me around
free and young
bright as summer air
fly with me in your arms
take me somewhere new
we could be ravens
watching the sunset turn our feathers to flame
walk with me now, take my old hand
I don't think you ever did tell me your name

There is a place, It has no name
Easy to get to just the same
Everyone has one, a room of despair
You can knock on the door
If you no longer care
It's the end, I have had it
I’m glad that it’s done
Can’t be bothered to fight
And nobody won
Battled ourselves to the bitterest end
If anything’s left
You can keep it my friend
You keep on talking
But I am walking
Today
Get out of my life
Get out of my face
Apologise to an empty space!

Do I love you,
more than gentle earth or sky
or rain or cooling winds that blow
air to breathe or wine to sip
daffodils and trees in spring
a thousand other poets things
I do not know if this is true
I only know that I love you

Fast falls the rain,
cold upon the summer of my expectations,
and yet, I do not feel it wet upon my skin,
it puts a damper on my aspirations,
the earth is dry, my sense of drowning lies within

Salty old river

Flowing gently

Downwards

In space

Running off

The waterfall

That is my face

Poems are not toothpaste,
you cannot squeeze another from the tube at will,
bend the ends of words for one last drop,
inspiration comes in waves
and when it wants to do so, it will stop,
you cannot pick a constant crop,
there are times when the field lies fallow
hiding seeds which may or may not grow
if and when they flower
that is not for us to know,
poets feed on what they find
the harvest of a fertile mind

Smiles
hidden behind miles of printed cloth
weddings and the Christmas we called off
people we loved and held dear
everlasting warnings have led to national mourning  
for things that have gone and cannot be replaced
and we have chased the rainbows that appeared
on every window, every door
what was that for
to make us feel one for all, all for one
until we could look up and find the sun
in its proper place
once again
and dodge the pain of the mental rain
which has been falling
washing out dreams
and churning them to soggy dust
most of all we have lost our trust
that sense that everything will all be ok
has upped and melted away
chopped down, chipped up
like the limbs of a tree
and with it our sense of certainty
the shock is profound
because we have found that we stand on much shakier ground
than anyone thought it could possibly be

If you take my words
you are stealing sand
which belongs to everyone,
there is plenty on the beach,
we share a bucket of language
play, make a tower of your own devising,
the castles I build are mine, and mine alone

The wind outside my window
is a lonely wayward soul
forever seeking company
searching around corners
whipping sand up into drifts
but the beach won’t play today
nor will the dark and boiling sea
or the marram grass, bent down and flat among the dunes
only the gulls with their wheeling cries
will try to hug the wind

Sitting on her suitcase

Waiting

In a near empty street

The other kids

The teachers

And the coach

Went  home

Long ago

Seven years old

Small and pale

A dreamy little oddball

With long red hair

It needs a wash

Like she does

Everybody else

Is at home having tea

She is still waiting

None will come

They often forget her

With a sigh

She gets up

Dragging the case

Down the hill

They are all surprised

When she arrives

She cries

They call her a little drama queen

She takes the case upstairs

And keeps the baggage in her head for fifty years

She is my ghost

And I am hers

We haunt each other

Harsh is the morning,
its promise still unspoken
a sea of toothpaste white
scrubs a beach not fully woken

**** you thieving gulls,
bold and noisy bandits of the air
you will not still my thoughts,
I need to sit on a shiny plastic chair
scrape the legs across a bumpy concrete floor,
drink a cup of steaming words,
lose then find myself within the oceans roar,
come foaming water take me
wash my head
fold me and remake me
send me tumbling to the beach
to roll and scrape along the sand
throw my worries out of reach
snack on them for just a little while
swallowed whole by heaving marram grass
trapped within your ever shifting smile

I loved you most
in our bittersweet years
a taste of honey
wrapped in tears

If you long for a life of
sunny skies day after day
you will be disappointed
nothing grows in a desert
settle for a little rain now and then
and someone to share your umbrella