Friday, 5 September 2014


South West England, Summertime.
The base and 6-string are playing

brightly one Monday afternoon
under a soft watercolour sky;
the base and 6-string are playing.

It’s not clear who started this throb
around tents and camping chairs,
teacups and painted starlight stones
but the base and 6-string are playing.

And, in the darker recess of a plastic tent,
one unwashed Down’s boy sings
across perfectly imperfect repetitive notes,
from a hopeful wet tongue laving for dinner
now the base and 6-string are playing.

Propose a new music, un-housed,
less predictable, in a strange tongue,
held by a deeper fret of purple sound
from a true gut; a resonant truth
laughing like a tambourine
when the base and 6-string are playing.

Saturday, 16 August 2014

So Push

One o’ clock, North Yorkshire
and we cycle hard - cogs
chuckling into spurs and chains
on-and-around sprockets

oblivious to tops-of-trees parading
front-to-back and the Howgills
rolling more slowly
in parallax and majesty

until we hit a low dip
and start a long climb
feeling breath and thighs hot.

Looking far away to the left
(in a miracle of trigonometry)
a far mountain rises mysteriously
like in a cardboard theatre.

Pushing and climbing, an earth-top also climbs.
Cycling more easy, our summit stays and shivers;
a fine old miracle in time.

Now the road descends and our peak slo-mo’s
away; no longer fighting gravity
but sinking like a drowsy head
obscured by trees and foothills, green.

And it helps me feel the sun
and how she seems, every day, to light and rise
imperious - and how, if we all freewheel,
eventually her rays maybe wouldn’t
be bothered to rise either, and sink. A sigh.
So Push.

Thursday, 17 July 2014


Empty now, my breakfast bowl
somberly thinking (‘What is Next?’)
of blue, green, yellow powder pills
and a brew of side-effects.

Monday, 7 July 2014

The Day After

Twenty four hours
into minutes, seconds (even smaller)
but, looking back,
only by story, metaphor, simile
can I Feel-that-Day again
like the sunshine of an orange skin,
(or the journey of a train with volcano cans of beer)
the flesh soft and tangy, juicy as a sponge
dripping ocean sap
and a dream somewhere in between the story of a day;
the sense and the non-sense
warped by brainbox,
itself soft as ripe red melon
fragmented in memory at the end of the day:
pages, physics, juice, included.

Thursday, 26 June 2014

Three Spitfires

And it wasn’t the moving of curtains like breathing
or the clicking of buildings settling down for the night
but a distant loud roaring of engines and thunderbolts
and his name on the roll-call; insects and kites.
And it wasn’t the twitching of curtains like breathing
or the clicking of buildings in the night and the night
but the nearby quiet roaring of blood in the arteries
and the checklists and wheelchairs; halogen lights.
And it wasn’t the twitching of eyelids one evening
or throat-boxes sobbing defying the night
but the nearby quiet roaring of blood in the arteries
and inbreath – and outbreath; - emerald flight.

Saturday, 14 June 2014

Oh Emily,

because the train had stopped for God,
it also stopped my breath –
the carriage held the two of us
- my fractal soul – and Death.

We both stepped down – ‘Mind the Gap’ –
and neither He nor I
looked back to see what we had left
inside the carriage aisle.

We walked along the platform edge
but dragged no suitcase there,
ignoring all the yellow lines,
already paid – the fare.

Our ticket passed through turnstiles
- we felt the tangy air
and sailed away – in Charon’s boat -
- On time – At Last – Aware.

Slow – our ark sank in the sea -
explored a wreck of pain
- until I saw a bait - and line -
- hopped on another train.

Monday, 26 May 2014


look across a forest glade at me.

Every green leaf in movement and a breeze touching.
From my side, I see multitudinous waving
and You.
                     You hear another voicebox
                     asking hard questions;
‘Would you like to join my dream?
Will you let me join your dream?
Why cross this glade?
How far can we reach?’

Look across a river at me.

Cold water spinning us far
if we jump together now.
                        But would you jump if I jumped
first and would I follow you?
“Would you join my flow?
Will I take your journey?
How far can we sail?
Can we swim upstream?’

Look across a caldera.

It’s hot in there and would kill us quickly
so let us walk anti clockwise.
                                    But if you circle, and so do I,
we will not meet, denying heat.
‘So shall I stop and wait?
Or will you wait for me?
How long will we linger?
Or turn and slide away?’

Look from a mountain top back towards me.
Shall we drop the nonsense, friend?
Together. Leap. And fly!