I usually spend my time
At the table close to the drink,
With most of the night
To sit and think
Of it all working like a charm,
When we throw the great doors open
And you arrive on my arm
Then the music starts up
I have the first dance
You so close to me
Your hand in mine
Sends shivers down my spine,
Then the firelight in your eyes
Leads me further into a trance.

She drives her man on
Over the cliff
Into the abyss
And the soft green meadows
And the ten million seeds.
I didn't even know
I was crashing,
Body try to keep up
With the butterflies.
Since you last touched me
A lot has happened.
And nothing.

My cup overflows
Yet nothing
Is spilt or lost
In the precious mystery
Of your love.

The red plane was back,
Sweeping low over the trees
To avoid radar detection,
Then banking steeply
Away to the right
Into the adjoining field
At the back it's my house.
I could run
In those days -
Perhaps that was it.
I was the only one
To actually stand
In the rainbow,
When the others arrived
The DDT was already falling
In a fine mist,
Like that summer rain
That soaks you
Through in minutes.
Then again it could
Have been any of
The other chemicals
I breathed in,
Ate and drank
Over the ensuing years.
I don't think there is any need
For an autopsy.

People are stealing poetry books
To cut up
To use as toilet paper.

The cotton wool clouds
Glued at random
In a giant blue
Colouring book
Are real
And cause me to breathe
Deeply for the first
Time today.
The greenwood
With it's shadows
That question the rights
Of leaves to answer
And flowers, freshly
Painted this morning
By the supreme artist
Who begs us to, who
Dares us not to
Notice them
And the seed,
Airborne at last
Parachuting into
My hand
Are all real,
But I am not.

The ballerina in a
Dying piruette
Signals the end
Of her show,
Black putrid, billowing
Twisting and devious
As any smoke engaged
In this work
Must go.

But those who
Would not remain
Are as loathed to
Turn around
As were their bullets
Reluctant to maime
Or ****,
Afraid of breaking
The spell
And being dragged back
Into screaming hell
Instead of gently
Led away through
The buttercups on the
Side of the hill.

A solitary line
Of shuffling feet
Retreating bodies,
Some ghosts
Belatedly anointed
By fine summer rain
Coming too late
To dampen the pain,
Inside the bullet burns
And intermingled
With cries, birdsong returns
Conjuring up
Farmyard smells
Capturing boyhood laughter,
A cosy bedroom
Like a stabbing
In the side
Starts the tears again,
So soon
As when my gallant
Friends and I
With unbeknown
Sadness, rode out
One sunny afternoon
Down to the fields
Of shame
And straight into
Certain madness.