Dawn

When Andrew wakes at Yes of day,

a spark ignites from early light

and flames alive a sunny face

with a flash of blood and fire

 

and then his first word of the day;

a small volcano simmers power

with a blink, a spurt, a warning cry;

of ‘Yes!’ this is my hour.

St Ives

Summer’s turning cold

even with a southern breeze

and crazy seagulls mock a falling day

expecting winter fish

 

but children still bob like seals in the cool sea

or skim flat stones from a beach,

reaching for a sense of water.

 

In the wind, kites fly up, parallaxing clouds

and hot smoke leaps away from chimney stacks.

 

Grounded, sixteen old and puddled tables

that could fodder more than a hundred people

sit empty.

 

At dusk, an archetypical truth;

this place is water, air and fire and earth.

 

 

Sizzle

Nothing smells like a small sausage

cooked in open air

 

whether or not it

cracks or holds together

 

and afterwards

when meat and bread

have slipped on down,

only then, Andrew

 

walks away and questions

toys on how they’re feeling

 

and they, imbued, reply as one

‘Fantastic!’

Not Sloth

I fell into a trap at dawn.

East, the sun

lit the sea awash

and I looked for, longed for, ached for, rest.

 

Stepping into this trap

I laid up

but knew, deep down, that ink can run

letters form, words rhyme, there’s no time

 

and I saw a white sheet

hanging on a line

pulling moisture from the sun

and sizzling waves;

loosening fibres, softening edges:

ready for work.

One in 1461

This afternoon

in an empty house

I’m singing songs

and

 

‘Happy Birthday to You’

when my daft brain works out

how Andrew,

if

 

he had been born

one hundred and twenty

days earlier,

he

 

would be a leap year

boy and aged merely five;

which he does, indeed,

seem.