I would like this life of endless
Greyhound time schedules to cease.

What self-inflicted alien abduction
tore me from the valley of my birth,

leaving me to wander empty streets,
each the branch of a coppiced maze?

I grow weary of quotidian fastfood buffets
downed with the aid of espresso baristas.

My legs have lost the muscle-memory
that strode the river cliffs with no regard.

Time to end the sleepwalk of forty years;
rejoin the forward guard of Iroquois.

Once dense thicket, coppiced
To bear a cornucopia filled with
Indian’s Summer rare blood moon.

The All-Hallows summer extends
As Samhain comes closer
Recognizing, celebrating the ever coming.

Wide leaves writhing and crunching from
Deciduous oaks as they bare to nothing.
Crushed grass and brush uncover a
Light trail leading to preserved boscage.

Through the dense brush
Untouched water thickens  
From frosty moons bite.

Seizing gossamers flight
The soft breeze harshens
For long nights moon is soon near.

abjectness is a form of inroads
toil the Woodlands Trust
all hail no coppiced beeches,
my first sighted R.S.P.B Avocet
the perplexed scale comparable
to competing blank stares,
endorphins withstanding,
clueless  and unconscionable
instinctual pomposity
suffers Nature's either
way.

Well yes I do carve walking sticks
Not two or three hours
But more like thirty or fourty
But then I saw the connection
Between my poetry and wood
Each takes me into another world
Of rhythm oh so good

Where I hear you ask
Can this connection be made
A poem and a walking stick
This man is surely mad

But think dear friends about a how
poem does evolve
You start with just a single word
Then watch the poem grow

I walk in the woodlands
I walk the forest ways
And I see things
That you might miss
In the coppiced hedgerow lays

And so with my trusty folding saw
A wooden stave lies in my hand
Perfectly straight or warped
Wood, oh wood so grand

And so just like poetry the plan
Then starts to form
With penknife and a wood rasp
A walking stick is formed

Sandpaper grades decreased
And long hours pass
Eventually that rough hewn stick
Attains the sheen of glass

Yes I carve sticks with rustic pride
Never do I miss what the cuts might hide
When I write it is with love
I can edit a poem
But not a walking stick

Swaying in the soft gentle breeze,
succulent green leaves glisten and glow,
catching the sun's golden rays, filtering
through the coppiced canopy above,
reflecting off droplets from heaven;
Bringing the verdant vibrant woods to life.

There's many a story these woods could tell,
If only trees could talk;
Long in the night they'd stand and share,
of the songbird’s sweet call for loves lost,
the snowy owl's nocturnal adventures,
the *****’s screams of ecstasy, or pain.

And let us not forget, the forest fairies fair,
coming out to play on such a glorious morn.
Sunbathing atop a toadstool fly agaric,
Admiring the glistening golden spider's web,
Downing the nectar from a rain soaked leaf.
Washing dainty toes in the morning dew.

But don’t expect to see one.
For they are as timid as the fawn,
yet as brave as the lion.
As delicate as lace,
yet as strong as silk.
But they are there, rest assured.
Keeping the magic of the woods alive,  
protecting the spirits of the trees,
and allowing the secrets of the woods to live on,
For evermore

brought no bell,
or call-to-arms,
no rush of Prussian
blood to head
the ball into an
empty net, no change
in current sea levels...

no harm befell
the coppiced shoots
of brutal resolutions,
proving atheist
relationships are
worth their weight
to any fool...

and
no-one but
the very best,
would deign
to chance a
second guess
of getting into heaven

on this first day
of the year.

The population's being coppiced
laid atop funeral pyres
and those men with matchsticks
for a brain
are the ones who'll light the fires.

If I could
I would get while the getting is good
touch wood that I don't become deadwood.

There are some for whom the sun always shines
and we are the some
some of the time
but
most times we're not.

They put pictures of houses where houses should be
homelessness is not a priority and
seniority counts for nothing in an
'all for myself' society.

Dystopian?
Dismal?
that may be so
but the shambles we're in
is just so abysmal

what do we see?
no one's breaking free
we are trapped in the krap
and we're sinking in deeper,

You should
keep a diary
wire me the updates
rate it on trip advisor,
one proviso
stare at the truth 'til
it blinds you.

Cold tile floors
Creaky cupboard doors
Paper trails of rumours
The hum of the conditioning

Above the shallow humour and
Gallant shanty banter
Camping under neon light
Cowering at the workload
Showered with hollow achievement

Bereaved of all sensitivity
The tense glances we share here
Could not possibly have meaning
For the endless stream of data
Overshadow the need to sate
The matters of the heart

This wanting is remarked
As a hindrance
So we quell it and salute
A good riddance
To the colour of our souls

A pretence much less than natural
The intoxicating scent
Is testament to facts
That struggle to lay dormant
Then torment relentlessly
Every time the moment sees
Our eyes lock in hungry gaze tease

This game we play
Between numbness and the flowering
Leaves me towering in place
Yet hidden between hills
As they peek forbidden shoreline

To test my will and tow line
Between animal and light body
Upon the sterile battlefield
Which rages in the silence

Grant me license to forget myself
Between the pencil push and hush
So you can see my true self gushing
All over your fertile parchment

Then we can find a way to learn
What it means to blend our currents
Smothered in the pungent odour
Of  togetherness
Protruding from our longing smiles

So close but miles apart we are
In this boring work time daydream
This office coppiced fantasy
Is fickler as the day seems
Long

An anxious rain invigorates the morning,
sound the burgle!
Autumn's fruit is falling,
like a beat of a drum.
Drystone walls murmurs
their ancient story
over the coppiced lined hills,
where ancient oaks stand stocially
amongst the wistful stars.