Ploughed fields and tractor churning
yarrow, nettle, stubble burning
signs of a year at summers turning
blackberry, bracken, meadow sweet
showing the season is almost complete
chiff-chaff, pipit, pecking crows
bring high summer to an early close

I have laid down my life as I laid down my gun
the battle is over
I don't know who won
their side our side
does anyone care when it's all  said and done?
Long ago and far away
at very the end of the hardest day
when silence falls on the blood red, mud red, grass
will anyone remember what came to pass?
Young men die and old men weep
for comrades lost and the memories they keep
hugged to themselves till their time is done
a long life haunted by the shadow of the gun.
I have no name
war took it from me
a symbol, instead of the lad I used to be

I blame the rain

It has a ceaseless patter

A rhythm on the window and in my head

It stalls my words

Drowning them with sound

Stones that sink that great grey whale of my thoughts

Stilling his song into empty silence

No poems today

I blame it on the rain

Blend me a colour
In waterproof mascara
Shades of missing you

Paint me the cold of midnight
or dawn in the hills,
mix me the feel of fresh grass
under tired feet
and the smell of rain
on a long and dusty road,
boiling rage
or the sweet sweet joy of relief
blend me a colour
for the things my eyes cannot see

Do the stars look down and gently sigh
From their lofty home do they wonder why,
as we scurry around on our little blue ball
concerned about things that don't matter at all.
Do they weep when they see us again and again
smashing our world and the bits that remain.
The continuing heavens roll on and on
they were there before, and after we've gone
they will still exist to shed their light
with a fire that warms the eternal night.
Human kind is the blink of an eye
To those who look down and wonder why!

Lost lines
withered fruit upon the vine
which snuffs a lighted candle
in the writers mind
the skull, that egg
which once was full and round
now echoes, hollow with the sound
of missing words no longer found

Propagate some imagination seeds,
grow them on the sunny windowsill in your head,
water them with words,
and watch the stories bloom

Checked tables
ocean views
winding streets
kicked off shoes
Greek yoghurt
blueberry sweet
fresh brewed coffee
holiday treat

Press your ear against the bowl
can you hear it ringing
I think the earth is singing

The night is daughter to the moon

The sun her father

Wilful and wild

Secretive


So unlike her serene and graceful mother

Or her bold papa

She hides where they shine

Unseen and often unheard


Keeper of secrets

Dark eyed girl of mystery and magic

Singular blue child

Of many questions

And few answers

The embankment is a river
of bottles in the sun
I've held them and I've kissed them
every single one

Bottled words boiled down
Haiku pan bubbles over
Leaving the meaning

Branscombe blossom
fair and light
coats the grass with pink and white,
mossy branch and apple breeze
stirs the limbs of dancing trees
orange tips and foraging bees,
no sweeter does the blackbird sing
than in an orchard filled with spring

I stand and watch my brood depart
brave captives of an Autumn sky
they need no shelter from my wings
now they are swans and want to fly

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

We are all a part
of a universal whole
each living soul
is connected
unless directed
to be disconnected
war breaks the chains
until all that remains
are the crosses we sow
where flowers used to grow

Invisible breath
sometimes in the colder months
she wears a white coat

A wilderness heart

Wrapped in thorns

Tangled spikes, to keep the hurtful world at bay

You sought me out

And you cut them anyway

Does a flying bird
See exactly the same bridge
As a swimming fish

Weighed down by rocks that were your words
I took me to the river, and tossed those pebbles far and wide,
then I found me a bridge that was burning
and danced to the other side,

Life is a heavy hat,
we wear it, and we learn to bear it,
as we age the debris grows,
bright chapeau that once was trimmed with flowers
attains a brim of ***** crows, that peck and eat our dreams,
crap filthy ropes and jump upon the battered crown
weighing down upon our ancient heads,
yet somewhere underneath the mess, we smile
warriors all, those of us who tread the long and weary miles,
for we have hope, that small and shrunken ghost
companion of our youthful days
she follows as we turn each corner
not quite the cheerful girl she used to be
but clinging on,
the wraith of expectation

Grief is a sea

A lonely place

First comes the shock

That slap in the face

It tells your brain

You can't take the pace

Leave the pain for a while

Drop out of the race

Sit on the side

Watch the world go by

Numb and chilled

Too stunned to cry

It will be too much

When Reality hits

Let's take it slow

Face the news in bits!

Some cold black coffee
A biscuit on the carpet
Death lets himself out

To see the stars fall , and have them melt as falling rain upon your face

the drowned sorrows of another day, run and leave no trace, upon your damp and salted skin

they leave their scars writ large upon the beating heart within

Bubbles are children

Filled with hope

And lightness of being

Gaily coloured birds that long to be free

If you hold them too tight

They will leave you forever

All you can do is to watch them

As they float around for a while

And wave them goodbye

When the wind blows

Bubble child
a pretty fragile thing
of pinks and blues
and other multicoloured hues
we watched you
with delight
in skipping dancing floating flight
the wind changed
and we moved on
I turned to look
but you were gone

Come rain
fall smooth across my face
embrace my cheek
stroke soft
as if a lovers hand
do not sting
I am no flower
and you no honey bee
sweet gentle rain
come fall on me

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

Feed the flame
lead don’t follow
show the way
be the candle
that single burning spark
shine a light
into someone else's darkness
and illuminate your own

When I am gone
think of me often
for I will be a butterfly free soul
a forever spirit of the air and wind
dancing among the flowers
in endless summer

Flattened sky
ironed by night
creased by morning
beyond it the curving collar of the hills
and crows, equidistant on a wooden fence
black shiny button birds
placed to complete the landscape
time to put on the day
roll myself in the fabric of normality
and gather it tight
shaping to fit my purpose

Adrift,
she fishes,
searching a foggy sea,
for a souvenir of long gone years,
and who she used to be

I watch at first light

Summers dawn

As it ripples over daisy fresh grass

Not yellow like syrup or honey

Sharp and green and cool

With the possibility of peace

He sleeps

Quietly folded into a bedside chair

Like an old newspaper that someone else has read

Time to shut the pages and say goodbye

For me the tale is told

He will wake and find me gone

Our story is done

Click
Whirr
Digital purr
Time is torn
A memory is born

Without a soul
there is no life
only relentless churning
in a word machine
which has never seen
or sorrowed
or loved
or a thousand other things
for it is this that gives the poet's words their wings
it can but try
but with no heart
it cannot truly fly

Early morning

In the cool calm of a Sunday

Before the world has got its boots on


Flat and calm with possibility

Grey water

For a sleepless wanderer


Listening

To the roar of silence

Both deafening and beautiful

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

Postcard memories,
a sky too blue
and a sea too green,
shown in brighter colours
than they ever could have been