Saturday, 10 October 2009


In my fist I hold a cheap red apple,

asymmetrical, ready to be lifted,

crunched, before we head out for a meander

into amber woods. It’s October

when autumn rattles branches to the floor.

This apple handles true and simple, impossible

to capture in words but snuggles ready for eating

in an upturned palm, enclosed, like when our fingers

intertwine, eyes meet and a lump, half-sobbing,

stops my throat in a form we have no words for.

Thursday, 8 October 2009

The Loud Boys

Loving the lusciousness, splash of a bath;

lying awake in a bed or a cot,

loving the singing, the chorus, the noise

when grown ups try stopping but no, they are not

listening or clocking his shout and his meaning

to sing out in gusto, splash without malice, enjoy

all his loudness of manna and life force, bread

basket living by singing with passion instead.

Loving tonality, simply momentous,

he warbles his words and intensity lifts

a dramatist’s hand by directing the feeling

and his hand is an actor’s and so the scene shifts

into silence, a calmness, the wind now has dropped

and a clock’s movement stopped because he is stealing

asleep to rest nerve, bones and blood in his veins

as he flicks off the switch on a wonderful thundering day.

Wednesday, 7 October 2009


Riding a train he

switches on a small bright light

and the train slows down.

Tuesday, 6 October 2009

Streets of London

I have seen nervous men, heard voices with no power,

hands all trembling and at what cost

to bone and sinew, human tissue,

but you Ralph Mctell, now is your hour.

Two guitars lean silent throats;

their strings, when touched by a thousand fingers,

dazzle evening, angels, winds;

querulous, quivering, tingling notes

and an avalanche rumbles under chimes

gathered in the belly – a deeper voice

of tender waves, ramming my heart,

“I will show you


to make you change your mind”

Monday, 5 October 2009


Outside a ring-necked dove is cooing, Strong

spurs of sound bubble like a growling flame

guttering out. She rests and calls again,

less than my jumping mind, her simple same song.

Once more she gently calls and arcs around

with all singing now and here the same

until it fades and dies, vibration losing aim

but now and there again and never wrong.

Somehow I know my body-soul needs this

longing for the sweetness of her inspiration

and if inside my straggly lines you miss

a rolling rise and caroling creation,

at least you’ll not be trapped in mindful lies:

at least she calls without an explanation.

Sunday, 4 October 2009



an apple fell on his head:

an orb pulled an orb.