I'm just a bit peckish
and ready for a skirmish,
said the early bird
who was feeling wormish!

Wood pigeon, wren and linnet call
chaffinch, greenfinch, welcome all
dine with me, come pull up a seat
sing soft on the fountain, watch me eat
drink from a day that is near to ending
all fierce promise dulled and blending

My hometown coat don’t fit no more,
the pockets stuffed with memories
of who I was before,
I found new clothes of peacock blue
when I was seventeen
but underneath the seams still pinched
although it wasn’t seen,
plastic buttons tarnished
by things that might have been,
I find no need to keep it,
I'll shed my former skin,
and dump it in a bin-bag
so that healing can begin,
I know some threads will linger
no matter how I try
most will go at the traffic lights
when I wave the past goodbye

Dawn light,
sharp and bright,
how dare you come all creeping
to touch me curled and sleeping
in the bed on which I lay,
go away,
I am not ready for your play,
we can dance a little later
when the morning turns to day

The poet inside me sleeps,
curled up in the nut he rests,
perhaps he has died
and he lies, stiff and cold,
I do not think he is no more,
the occasional snore can be heard
a tumbling phrase or sybillant vowel
escape his lips,
errant ships that pass,
otherwise he lies
a dormant beast, waiting for spring
and the filtered sunshine that his words might bring

Humble greetings all
we rise or fall
upon the swords which are our words
steel of critics teeth to edge the blade,
a thousand stings and stabs
or gentle and much softer blows
which fortune falls upon the writers head
is not for us to tell,
what literary hell awaits
who knows

Peace,
a blissful moment of release
is it an object
a concept
or a verb,
or is a little note on your head
that says, do not disturb
is it in a garden,
filled with things you grew yourself
or does it come in shopping
and a bursting wardrobe shelf,
you decide,
there is only one of you that resides
and sometimes hides in that place inside