Steaming chocolate scents the room
    coaxing me to sink into
          a soft warm woollen russet blanket
    with the promise of
            spicy sienna cinnamon biscuits.
Outside the trees prepare to hibernate
  discarding yellow ochre leaves
        onto the brown damp forest floor.
Crackles from a fire-pit
    penetrate the window
        and remind me of the autumn cold.
The finest part of a wet, chilly fall day
        is watching through double glazing.

The black man – like a pretzel on the grass –
is sitting vilified because of race,
and option less, he has to let it pass;
pretending not to sense he's out of place.

Another couple point, and laugh, and stare:
fair skin and hair proclaim their easy life.
A honeyed world means they don’t have to care:
their actions cut him like an arctic knife.

Behind, the sacred stone and glass stands for
a fruitful tree of life that’s meant for all,
but cherries are too costly for the poor.
Sweet learning for the rich, though they are dull.

It’s up to you and I to fight against
all orchards that we think unfairly fenced.

Soot darkened ***** drizzled damp sandstone
    grey like depression.
Dull ochre leaves squelch wetly under foot
    rotting and foetid.

Scaffolding covers faded elegance
    dims its fame.
Water trickles down umbrellas, hats and
    drenched clothes

Cars spraying water over the pavement
    saturates pedestrians:
soaked blue jeans stick to frozen legs,
    soggy like a graveside.

Greasy spoon tipsy waitress swerves
    spilled tea;
cracked cups, saucers and sweet generic cake
    disappoints.

Stove radiates a red smoky welcome
    like a warmed bed.
Crafted draught pints served foamy and savoured
    sparkling and bitter.

Locals drink, eat, play board games and throw darts,
    laugh at the rain.
I read poetry books to my girlfriend
    by the snug fire.

Buxton will bloom, golden again
      when summer comes,
its octagonal pavilion teem
    with street bustling life.

Deep
    liquid rock seethes
          pressure builds
                molten fingers *****
                        probing
                              searching
                        pressed down
                        resisted
                        suppressed.

                        Incandescent lava
                            finds weak points
                                  pushes
                                      forces
                                      the mountain bends, buckles, swells
                                      strains, contains
                                      furious fire

                                      until

                                at supersonic speed
                      pyroclastic ash
                  rushes
            burns
        clears.

Quiet
    death has passed                                                          
          black cinder slopes
              and
                  a flower
                      blooms.

He is like a god to me
    alpha of my pack, my rescuer and my rock:
his breath like beef’s bouquet
    his words like brittle bones breaking in my mouth.

Our touch like summer
    as I rest my head on his strong thigh:
gazing adoration
    staring petition.

I stalk him
    for the crumb that falls from his plate:
and wait patiently
    for scraps of skin from his repast.

When indecision strikes
      to eat or not to eat:
He nobly leads me to the door
      and tethered takes me out.

He leads me through
    musky canine
          saffron sage
              scented pastures:
and corrects me when
    squirrels like sins
          tempt me to stray.

We romp through rugs
    of red and russet
          fallen fronds:
foraging for
    foully fragrant food
          delight of doggy dentes.

I am his humble hound:
he my mighty man.

Spent silverfish, massed on black
whippets at        the end of the track
cracked nut shells, lying
inflated balloons, dying.

Steel mosquitos that    tattoo poppies
shot up cartridges by    the school gate
in new mown grass    that stinks      the street.