Morning Air

The chill air, grips
The limbs there shaking
The laid-in bed, ruffled
Through darkness, them muffled.

The chill air, fills
The far-flung hills,
Spring-fresh waters helping
The mill-wheel’s turning.

The chill air, chills
The pore-drilled flesh,
The sink’s sad gurgle
Fakes reveille’s bugle.

Heralding night-lost light
The cooped-up fowl
Starts its peevish chatter
As though sense didn’t matter.


Bread without butter,
Speech without stutter.
Speak up! don’t mutter.

Body without limbs,
Church without hymns,
Spectacles without rims,
Gone, with the last groan we utter.

No Word Spoken

Where the green bust
Stands, in dust,
Where people, come and go
With no word uttered,
The stench of flowers
Long since rotted
Tell of degradation’s thrust,
If tell, it must.


Is laughing fun?
We are amused by
Someone else’s problem,
Laugh, when they stumble,
We don’t feel humble.
What is a joke?
Is it a misfortune
Happening to others?
We snigger, in delight
Even guffaw, outright.

The best laughs, are
At another’s expense
Provoking mirth, intense.
The conjuror’s deception
Can be hilarious,
When it really seems
That the model
Is cut in half,
That’s a certain laugh.
Was it an illusion.


Lies the planished brazen ocean,
Curved at the edge, without commotion.
The red clouds tell of the vanished sphere,
The house-lined quay seems to fear
Night’s gloved hand, and the dumbed gull
Harboured sails limp, in the evening’s lull
Befreckle the boundless, placid deep.

In tangled heaps, the weed lies
By this molten mirror’s side
A hopeless wreck, seen on the lee
Tells of power and hidden frenzy.
The tipless-craft and the pierhead light
Speak their tale of hideous fright.
Laid out, in rows, the well-corked nets
Breathe no sound, of any such threats

The Critic

“I like that”
Is what he said
Straight out of his head
Some other time
Not to be sublime.
He changed his mind
And wasn’t so kind
He thought it, “flat”.

Looking, at art
He has to say
Picking through the fray,
What he really feels,
Whether it appeals,
Even if biting,
And the writing
Could be pretty tart.

Using the common word,
Satisfying the press,
He has to stress
What he really feels,
Without making deals.
It is a constant fight
Not to be trite,
Nor even absurd.


What’s in your head, confined?
Is it true to call it mind?
If it leads to acts irrational.
Can this prefigure an “originale”?
Appearances misinterpreted by sight
Confuse, become perception’s blight

Solid motivated-thought
Must surely, earn a glass of port,
Swell the physique , push ahead, motivation fed.
Long farsighted, concentration,
Veracity, without cessation.

Cellular function’s, concentration.
Brings deeprooted cogitation.
When cranks come on the scene
The slate is wiped clean,
Nothing is the same,
Not even a name.


Forced from the homeland strife
To an urgent, change of life,
Struggling for a way out,
Even, interrogating the tout,
Finding a, new, safe land,
Arrive, and make a stand.
Hoping to become, a full part,
Not just jam on the tart
Overcoming gross suspicions,
Accepting imposed conditions
Leaving behind, established roots,
Sprouting, new, green shoots.
Living with tyranny, is dire,
Killing life’s emergent fire.
A vernacular to investigate
Helping one to integrate.
Looking for an anchor.
Avoiding any possible rancour.
Together, with due protection,
A tribe within a nation.

Play the Beat

Play the game
And follow the beat,
The disc lets out
The notes, there trapped,
And allows the feet
To glide and tap.
Rhythmic sound
Pulsating around

Play the game
And move with glee.
The bandsman wants
To force the beat,
Win the young, from off the street,
Pack the floor, and gain in strength
The haunting motion.
A surging ocean
Of flow and ebb

The Dance

A swirling movement
With arms linked
And bodies close,
A tingleing felt
Through contact,
Memories of time’s
Rhythmic tick.
The dance is set
To speed the pulse,
Without regret.

A gliding movement,
Chasing the sound
Of brass and string,
Copying the pulse,
Quickening life’s
Natural zest,
Tickeling the ear;
Making it clear
That movement’s dear


From hand invisible
A summoning came,
For me it was
I was called, by name.

Afraid to touch it
My eyes could feel,
For if they mock
Will the wound heal.

How did it reach me?
It must have been brought,
From the appointing committee,
That’s what I thought.

This was the matter.
“We regret to inform you …”
I know the rest,
It went to another.


Neon lighted place, workshops of a nation
Flanking with pride, in glamorous exaltation,
Firestone, Gillette, Lincoln, and Packard;
Things made to help us, to make life less hard.
They make things, in parts, and assemble the pieces,
Minute operations, boring, repetitive,
Standing long hours, stationed at benches
All for a small, a trifling reward.
Bowing to belts, moving, onwards, relentless,
Timed to a time of the tiniest fraction;
Thinking impossible, only the action,
Machine made goods made by man, made machine.
Civilised man, they say he’s progressing.
Enslaved in this manner, keeps you guessing,
Better he stayed, in the dark womb of time
Spending his life, in manner vile
Wasting his latency, in ways so futile


Churchery Mimes

Reverend Jack, and verger Bill
Tried hard, not to spill
The bowl of holy water.
Reverend Jack, fell down,
He broke his crown.
And Bill, he stumbled after.

Sorrowing deep
He started to weep,
He doesn’t know how to mind them.
The vicar alone
Under the dome
Must close the church, or find them.

Humphry Dumblby
The vicar, was tall.
Humphry Dumblby
“Hallo God”, he’d call.
“Have you heard of the church’s losses?”
The one person sitting there, unspoken
Was waiting, for the pubs to open.

Her nose, she had to puff it
So she hid, behind the buffet.
At the church’s annual, open day.
But the vicar espied her
And sat down beside her
Trying to find something to say.

Dilemma ‘mong the Beasts

Not stars
They’re lights of fliers
Travelling, grumbling.
Many another
Won’t take the bother,
Buys three-piece suites;
Sweeter far
Than barracked soldier.

Speechless fish’
Restless, ever
Gaping wide,
Taking in
And throwing back.
The red one died,
Found on the mat
By the whiskered-cat.
Musing now,
On the ceiling Gazing
At unnavigable rivers,
With tributaries,
And gruesome faces.

The new-cut lawn,
Zebra striped.
Bears the roller
With soothing delight.

The clumsy bat
Brings a fright,
Upturned sleeper
Haunting the night.

The belfry of
The forgotten church
Tolled the hour,
Found the carton empty,
The cup with sediment,
The embered fender,
The stumps of smokes,
Speaking aloud
Of barren hopes.

Who knows,
The smile of stone, hewn
By collected fingers.
The worm-fed crows
At least atone
For the fact that lingers.

Is it true
That he knew?
Or did he lie
The thread-limbed fly?
He must know something
Of this scheming
Or to plague the cattle
He would not battle.

Doff your coat
And leave the novel
Chase the stoat
From out the hovel,
Mount the stairs,
And count the number
Of the hairs
And claps of thunder

Did he lie
The thread-limbed fly?
The spot-bellied frog,
The short-legged dog,
The castrated hog,
Know the answer
But their conclusion
Is the exclusion
Of the humid fog.

There is another
With it acquainted
But his big brother
Had him painted.


In a pauper’s plot
In an unknown spot.
Glad am I,
But if they try
To seek out where,
Now here, now there,
I fear lest
They break his rest
And shift his dust
Neath some pompous pile
Showy, shiny, huge, and vile.

In a pauper’s plot
In an unknown spot.
Glad am I,
He will not die
But stir the air
Now here now there
The wave’s crest
Can answer best
The builder’s lust
Must be allowed to rust
He built his pile
In a fair style.


Mighty highway of solid construction
Conceived by the mind and fashioned by man,
Smooth, cambered, hard, and metallic,
Great open wound, through the heart of the land,
Flooded with lights, and one-way systems.

No crossings, no lights automatic
No lining of its edges with static
Factories, churches, hotels, or dwelling,
Each touching each, constantly swelling.

Glaring headlights, speeding on,
Roaring of engines, gears engaged.
All speeding on surface so smooth
Engineered, dead straight, passing metropolis.

Where do they go? On whatever business?
Ceaseless activity, pneumatic tyred
Revolving to minute, time without number.


Grey-blue heavens, surrounding all,
Vast container of this sphere;
Below, habitations upward spring
Tiny lighted windows, in boundless space.
Tree-forms, bare, giant fingers parted
Sprouting virile from earth’s womb.
Elephantine play-house roofed with cupola
Staging troupes of blind, groping, players,
Opposing, self-centered, improvisators.
Night smoothes the unsolvable wrangles
Sole life-renewer of everything living
Symbol of death, and of life eternal,
Revivifying spring of virginal freshness,
Source of all being, day is an offspring.
Oasis well cherished, in life’s vast desert
Wrapping all, in your basket of rest.
Spring of new life and zest
Inexhaustible energiser, we love you best.

Tread Softly
(Old bridge Lucerne)

I’ve known your well-worn timbers
Held by ageless props,
Lingered in your winding gallery
Enraptured by the tread, unheard
Of multitudinous ages,
Of sages
Of him who disparages,
Filling countless pages
Enrages, accuses,
Tread softly.
You tread on timeless matter.

The high places look down,
Each with snow upon its crown,
Make no comment,
Only, the wind, howls
Bringing time-kept ferment.
Rocks of treacherous construction
Set for heroic action
Or mock our craven indecision.
Witness of time-long living,
We’ll take due consideration.


Words can tell
Of many things
They clang and bang,
Or stroke and sooth;
Are often shrouded
Have many rungs
Tongues and lungs
Are not enough
Without the thrust
And cut
Of mind in action
On a common stage.
Only then can
The voice, strike
A note worth making,
And words start singing
A tainted tune
Of glee or glum


Make way, and see us
Through our vows,
And change us
With your views,
Then, at the count,
They will see us
And our sifted thoughts.

Honour and glory
And do as you please.
Leave it in his hands
And we will get caught,
An excellent sport.
Later still, you come along
But there must not be a song.

An excellent item for us,
They are the most rare
Some men are,
Vain, trick, and deceive,
Breaking bread, and quickly leave.
What price a novice?
See and know as they do.
Look at them
They cringe and sip rum
Without beating a drum.

Joy to the hearty, and to you.
Attenuated we wait
And see their frailty replicate.

We are military gentlemen,
Men of good will,
Four-square and true’
Uniformly clad.
Is this just a fad?

A thirsty gentle one
Whose poetry you sold
Whose gown and hood
Distinguished the good
And sets the pace
For a noble race.
At this very moment,
Hark the heavy plodding
An equine beast, nodding
Bearing earth’s harvest.
They pass the blooming fields,
Long is the grass
And is my expectation.
I forgot how far we’ve been
With our big boots and fuss
No joy, passing between us.

Glory to the blue sky
As far as I can tell,
An ardent desire for fine pictures
How wonderful to sell
Two deep, more men
Are on the way, two deep.

The Dowry

Unperceived eyes, awaiting
Day’s death, open wide.
Stretched beyond distance, hide
The sphere where visions ride,
Holding back, the brash
Intrusion, of light’s effusion;
Brimful with phantoms, firey.
Recollection’s handsome dowry.
Day’s death eyes awaiting.


Spinning, earth-bound tumble, disturbing space,
Without the grace
To linger, on some spiral race.
The rising landscape, takes a rapid twist,
And turns, enlarging fires burning, point blocks.
Needing a foothold, or so we’re told, but it’s cold.
Yes, dogs could do it, cats as well,
No doubt someone else could tell
About our thoughts, concerning hell.
Retrospective though it is, it puts an end to bliss.
What I miss?
The crumbling, russet soil
From which our bones recoil,
Or more fully stated it’s the impact I hated,
The impact with this and that.
The fellow should know better.
About posting such a letter.
Come here, go there, What me?
Yes, yes, there’s no one else
Until he lands.
But how could a fireman tell?
Perhaps a code,
Or did some one yell
Or recognise the ties with floating bodies.
Yet some time they clearly met.
Being too ill to forget
The mind can’t be left behind.
Only undulating air,
Not even now, prepared to dig,
For dig we must,
Adding our quota of dust.


The humble creek,
Of the bent-up beak,
And the horrible length, of her hair
Make the uncouth stare,
Pondering graveyards,
Shuffling cards.

Drop the brick, from out the hod
Hold the line, and beach the cod.
Of the hollow beak’s intrusion.
The worm, has no illusion.
Leave the ageing sleeper
And dig down even deeper.

Clutching hard her baby daughter,
Standing in the flowing water,
With a gleam and a shudder,
The cow’s heavy udder,
Hides the fact
Of the need to act.


For what?
A time of day?
A sound from afar?
There’s no need to shout!

The call will come,
A friend perhaps
With enough nous,
Could sort this out
With much less doubt.

Time rolls on,
Impossible to catch.
Heavy as lead
Whilst all about,
The wires ring out.

Waiting, waiting.
Why hang about?
The message will
Surely, be understood
Ere time runs out.
That’s what its all about.

Symbol Numbers (Evacuees)

The pendant label strung,
Long since the last song sung.

Banners bear their symbol numbers
As up the hill he lumbers.

Clutch the ungloved-hand
By the al-frecso band.

With G. B. plates at rear,
There’s not much to fear.

The picture-book’s dead weight
Makes him rather hate

To extricate its meaning,
The mind awaits its weaning.

With savage look unbroken
And no word spoken

He feels more able
To muse about a fable.


Lovers, in the long, damp grasses
Clasped in despairing, blind, embraces,
Deluding each other, of a union
That never can have a conclusion,
The frontiers are too well guarded.

Only phantoms, seen in a ballet.
For ever disintegrated whole
If once these pieces fitted
Not callous scheming, wit to wit pitted,
But then, perhaps would be, understanding.

Could this puzzle be once resolved
Each to each, would become involved.
Delicate threads, drawn together
Now hanging, loose, or fixed to tether
Or woven, in tangles inextricable.

Mocking fragment of a limb
Of the body dismembered, and flung
On this soil, sensitive to growth,
Seeking out its complimentary section,
Reconstructing a likeness, in any direction.

Vaporous vision, less fact than figment
Separated, still, perhaps each scattered part
May sprout a head, and life restart,
Even as the worm the delving spade cuts,
What was one, now two wholes make.

The dragon’s molars, planted, growing,
Life to death, and death life makes.

With Hollow Feet Afloat

Leave me by the luscious stream,
Brush the dry old hedge, and dream.
Dream of moss that was her hair,
Of tender whiffs of breath-warmed air.

Pass the sparrow gliding effortless,
Know the perfume of her dress
Screw up tight the daily paper,
Use it as a burning taper.

Lie there where the grass is longest
Lie there long, abide and rest.
Supine watch the breeze’s motion
In the sky’s embroidered ocean.

Watch the silver aspen shiver,
Watch the fowl bob on the river.
May I know the starry scheme,
May I lie here, long, and dream.

Where the motor-boat chugs on.
Bearing forth a mother’s son
There the chastened furrow’s spread
Rocks the boson’s lonely bed.

Where the high laden counter
Looms before the blank encounter
And the cold-topped tables bear
Weighty clots of clumsy fare.

Lead me where the neon shines
Auroras on the traffic lines,
There the mobile lighted beam
Marvels at the fairy scene.

There, with hollow feet afloat,
Pound a dreary echoed note.
Sepulchres and thorny logs
‘Mind me of fair hairless dogs.

The Stag

Running free, in herds,
Among the matted heather,
In brown last-year, bracken,
With coat, in subtle harmony.

With eyes, so full of fear,
Proud, sharp, antler-headed.
Ever keeping ceaseless watch
For the ever-lurking stalker.

The trees, your classic columns,
The sky, your vaulted ceiling,
The pools, for your refreshment,
Grasses, your mattress and meat.

Lord of the stately parkland
Patrolling your vast domain,
Sun, wind, snow, and flood,
For you, it’s all the same.

Keep from the dread roadway
The wheels, crush relentless.
To shun man, you have reason,
Enemy of life, primeval.

Life, uncomplicated, arcadian,
Under nature’s flowing wealth
To you she yields her secrets
Unknown to our human kind.

You know far more than we
Of life as first devised,
The bouncing raindrops,
The falling of the dew.

Inheritor of the free life
From which we’re now estranged
Live, as once we lived,
We’ll not savour that again.


Behind tight-closed curtained-windows
Look, they’re indoors, artificial-lighted.
Can they sit there, with all fireside comfort
When without, is a voice, insistently calling.
Hark at it, now humming a tune in my ears
Now playing havoc, now having a frolic.
You there, within, you can’t escape from it
Look at the flames, in the embers lapping,
Tugging to be freed from their pitch-black leashes.

Gusty ozone, blowing, fresh, sharp as a needle,
The dogs, they enjoy it, they’re not melancholic,
Listen to their yelping, for sheer joy of living.
Have your long, friendly blow, my fingers numbing,
Body all tingling, bloodvessels throbbing,
Throwing disorder to carefully combed parting,
Whipping the face to a red-heated glow
Bringing eyes, tears of joy, not of sorrow,
Leaning on the tips of your powerful fingers.

The puddle’s all bright, with borrowed light,
Its waters he likes, he’s now making merry,
The surface eddying, lapping, mounting, and singing,
Chasing, and overtaking lengthening and widening
Blowing the too-long hair do sideways.
Dead leaves are running, they’re missing nothing,
The inn-sign up there, is swinging and singing,
The flag, so excited, it tugs at its mooring,
Banging gates, they’re not one of them complaining.

Tossing about odd bits of paper from the gutter,
Tugging hard at bits of sheet metal,
The trees hold out their palms, fingers extended,
Even the stars in the sky, seem to twinkle, and laugh.
Fleecy clouds flying, by the face of the moon,
Now she shines through, now her cold light s screened,
Now the sky is swept crystal clear.
Blow in our nostrils the breath so dear
At one with all this, that’s what I’m crying.

Even So Soon

The leafless magnolia is in bloom
Outspread in well-groomed places,
There’s preening of feathers.
In seated rows, in terraced gardens,
On green sward, on timber seats,
Many a one, even so soon.

Towering empty, the ponderous hydros.
The skiff’s refloated, dragged out
From hibernating, under arches.
In the trees, the green spreads.
With new vigour pencil-traced eyebrows
All, even now, easy to rouse.

The bridle-led hack, well turned out
With difficulty on the metal sliding.
Offers greeting, as known ones remeet.
Things inanimate, or so we’re told,
Abandoned these months we’ve not been about
And now even so soon, start a new bout.

Sun through the Clouds

Fan of sparking light
Piercing floating clouds
And kindling with fire;
Shimmering on
The water, sweeping on.

The swan swims silently
Swayed by the wash
Blackness of trees
And blueness of haze.

The tow-path dotted
With moveable specks,
Can they be men?
That ranting race?

Their size insignificant,
Their progress so slight.
Where is their greatness
They claim as their right?

Mutilated Cat

Who did it?
Whose engine infernal?
Huddled to earth
In element rude,
Torn open, bleeding.
You, so sleek
Green-eyed terror,
Licking bloody wound,
Intermittent shrill cry
Frail, living flotsam,
Silence complete, unbearing
Our misery sharing.

The Portal

Our face is the portal
Through which we peer,
To be seen, and judged,
By another mortal.

Inside, we coyly crouch.
Offering no further clues
To those looking in,
As we lie, on the couch.

Inscrutable, the time’s
Face-covering hands
Allow the interpretation
Through marshalled chimes.

With blood and pride
We struggle to cling,
Not allowing, the sap,
To flow with the tide.


Curled in womb
Warm, protected
Until the time,
To be ejected.

The pain of exit,
Exhausting slide
To the dazzling light,
Of the world outside.

Agony, and search
For sustenance,
Soft, warm supply
Found by chance.

Delicious sleep
Soothing pillow
Wrapped up tight
Till cock crow.


The outsize man, has fully fed,
Wholely satisfied, with the spread:
Now dreaming of tomorrow’s fare.
Towering, well above the dishes,
He can hardly reach the table,
Studies the empty bottle’s label,
Wondering, where all the liquid’s gone.
Others, stare, in wonderment
At this unexpected diner,
Feasting, with such obvious grandeur.
Unaware, of their fixed attention,
He has no need for reciprocation.


Hanging about, in the street,
A static group, youthful, unthinking;
One makes an abrupt move.
Pulling from his inside pocket
A long blade, of shining steel,
Making the others, the edge feel.

A blindingly rapid move
Sees the blade, held high;
The nearest feels the sting
Of the cold-sharpness dug in;
Reeling with a stinging pain
He watches his blood drain.

At last, something to do,
Snatching, and pulling each other,
Punching, yelling, and kicking,
Friends, with no trace of malice
Have at last found action.
Lively movement, in a fraction.

Now on the pavement sprawling,
Pomelling, solace in doing,
Better than just idly standing.
Under the tight-swaying horde
One lies, stiff as a board.

Finding real energy at last,
Not standing bored, but active;
A muzzle is seen, held pointing,
The trigger cocked ready, then.
An ear-splitting, eruptive sound
And two more, lifeless, on the ground.

Remaining, the few stand,
Looking, down at the sight.
The blood freely flowing;
Whistle a lively tune,
The chart-topper of the day
And stroll, happily away.


Opposition only exists
Where there are convictions,
Making a clear case,
And a fighting base.

Without a firm stand,
There is no obvious need
To pose the question,
And form an equation.

Being just simply anti’
And even strident,
Is a cover-up, shallow,
Raw, and callow.

Holding-forth dogmatically,
Is a form of death.
Unacceptance of change
Is negative, and strange

Heat and shouting
Conceal a void,
And will only stress
Embarrassing nakedness.

No stated opinion,
Leaves one to believe
That the intelligent function
Needs considerable unction.


The potential owner, of a Rolls Royce
Leans on the bridge-rail, passive.
The scripture-master, blathers,
And the deep sea diver, gathers
Shells for Joyce
Stretched out there
With breasts, so massive.

On sands, of flowing time,
With peeks, and wicker chair,
Under the moaning plane’s drone’
Lies his shadow’s prone,
Phlegmatic span
The field’s, still bare of lime.
Middle aged, he has no hair.


What do we relate it to,
Walking, running, motoring,
Speed of sound in space?
When standing, stock-still,
All seems alarmingly astir.
When in fast motion
Some of the others, seem
To hardly show movement.
Our life’s whole span
A drop in a large ocean.
The river’s flowing-tide
Accelerates at the mouth,
Where the sea’s vastness is met.
The swift-flying jet,
Complete with heavy cargo,
Burrows the idyllic space
Of the many-feathered gliders
The electron’s silent path
Mocks our limited vision;
Trapped in complicated circuits
Gives instant information,
Using the new found chip.
The fast-rising rocket
Leaving the earth’s atmosphere
Finally hurtles into orbit
Imitating the turning phase
Of the universe’s other bodies.
The far too-speedy end
Of life’s short span
Leaves quite enough space
For the next generation’s race.


Hats, for special occasions
Differ greatly in appearance.
For racing circuit minions, helmets.
Favourite with the ladies, extravagance,
Quirky imbecility, florid;
Some curious, stop and gape,
Others, find them, pretty horrid.
Men prefer an anonymous shape,
Shun any outward showiness
To appear desperately dignified,
Don traditional morning-dress
So they, will not be eyed.

There’s the hard-hatted coterie,
Those at work, on the site
‘Gainst unsuspected debris.
The crews who fires fight
Add visors and neck protection.
The miner’s frontal beam
Gives the hands free action.
The jockey’s is hardly seen
Covered with the owner’s colours.
Riot squads use shields with it.
Worn by powered and pedal bikers
And metal-grilled at the wicket
Hats also tell a story
One’s own status arbiter;
Show truly ecclesiastic glory
The archbishop’s mitre
And the cardinal’s blood-red cap
Leave the lowly-monk’s cowl
Showing clearly the gap,
Not living cheek by jowl.
Military headgear differs
When standing on parade
From the camouflaged helmet
Of the active, fighting brigade.

The young townie’s choice
Of the baseball cap
Worn forward or back,
Gives a jaunty voice
Thought to be really “cool”,
A logo to make you blink
Is the essential rule.
Why do sportsmen think
That their outward stance
Must show part of a gang
Strutting, they happily prance,
Everyone else can go hang.

The diver, going searching,
Deep in water, down under
Wears a close-clinging
Complete head cover,
Compact and tight,
Generally usefully fronted
With a searching headlight.
The beekeeper protected
By added facial veil
No longer fears the sting.
The flat-capped ones sail
The ocean’s awesome setting.

For the rurality and the city
They give style and deportment,
Speak of hard work and felicity
With a distinct social element,
Those thought high or lowly
Or whatever car they drive
Covering the lay and the holy
Making all more vitally alive.
Of hats, there’s a vast array.
Some people don’t cover the hair,
Apply a heavy sealing spray,
In fact it’s whatever you dare.

Corona Chat

Listen, quietly
The key’s embrace
The flow of the, print
At a rapid, pace
Click clack click
That’s a good, trick
Clack clack click
Like a clock’s, tick.

With regular, rhythm
The clear, type-face
Relentlessly, spreads
With an easy, grace
Clack click clack
That’s the metallic, chat
Click click clack
How about, that.

A stunning, race
Of lines, fast added
The more brisk the growth
The better the chase
Clack click click
At a good lick
Clack clack click
That’s really, slick.

Hit and Run

The injured man leans
Upon his sturdy stick,
Painfully and carefully
Able a safe path to pick.

Lamed, life’s unwanted blight.
Ignored, by he who hit and ran;
Now he only creeps and throws a fit,
Robbed of mankind’s legitimate élan.


The present situation
Needs, clear explanation
To meet, with tolerance,
The increasing possibility
Of a positive advance.

Solving the position
Requires careful evaluation
Of those, seeking to manage
The immediate future,
With no further baggage.

To change the direction
Want’s thoughtful intervention;
If left static it would flout
The legitimate wishes
Of those, prepared to shout.

Removing the irritation
Means discreet agitation.
The conflict of ideas
Challenges the authenticity
Of one’s worst fears.
The ultimate cessation,
Needs a just solution
Without violent scenes
And avoiding the clash
Of long-held dreams.

Finally, positive action
Annuls lingering aggravation
Being much more able
To avoid the lurking risks,
And keep the matter stable.

Pit Corollary

Screeching, clanking, and somersaulting,
The buckets wander;
Pylons, holding cables, groan,
Held firm to a solid slab,
Hide acres, one-time fertile.

With sacks, the gleaners sort it,
Climbing sides, avalanching,
Another day, the cold at bay.
The tiny ones, and women folk
Suffer the too-long days.

The smoke-stack belches,
A black, ponderous venom,
Taints the passing air.
The flying-wheel
Speaks of moving cages.

Steam-sheets, well laundered,
Hang between and shorten vision
Hide the tiny world’s-edge trees.
Fields known green wear a bloom
As fresh picked prunes, unfingered.

Branches remain puny
Stunted, thin, and twisted.
The lank grass breaks the flatness.
Boulders, large, from the summit fall
While he picks out the coal, in tatters.


St Michans Dublin

In ancient caverns, subterranean,
They lie, leathern palms, diminished,
Peering, from out their confinement,
With finger-nails, still planted,
Organs shrivelled, but complete,
Cheating time’s claim to devastate.
Baffling minds, intent probing,
Uncovered, Centuries old child,
Gaped at, questioning, unseemly,
Unknown, by those still living,
Clear, the twitchless features.
One, headless, was it by axe
One time, in a nearby jail?
Here, the only life, living,
Tiny, eight-limbed weavers,
Each, eating each, to survive.
In cases, stored in tiers,
Barred, against the snatchers,
One, with mutilated limbs
Shorn of both, feet and hands.
Velvet, brass-studded, untarnished,
Legs crossed, a knight lies,
Whose flapping, hardened skin
We lift, to peer in sadistic delight,
Concentrate the beam, and prattle,
Centuries meet, at the touch.
Tight-sealed, with wizened lips
Their secret, into eternity, slips.


The Irish Peasant

The gull’s wailing screech
Fills the rock-strewn beach.

The dreary bogland-waste,
Its desolation, flouts all taste.

The straight-cut trench, with water,
Fed the flame’s cottage quarter.

Panniers by the donkey’s side,
The fibrous dried-up cakes hide.

Cattle, with a soft-eyed look
Bar the way beyond the brook

Jangling, the little cart
Bears the churns, standing apart.

The thatch and whitewash-dotted hills
Pattern the fields he tills.

With awkward step, the weighty goose,
Her stiffened-neck hisses beak-abuse.

Hangs the fuchsia’s vivid red
On the corps-filled ground fed.

The shoeless child-feet patter
O ,’er the sharp-loose stones no matter.

Clime-lashed hollow women, cowed
‘Neath the dingy shawl’s black shroud.

The gull’s wailing screech
Fills the rock-strewn beach.


The Fountain on Richmond Hill

Stone storks standing
In the hill gardens
Have ceased,
Expelling jets,
Of active water.

The spring will come
But now they stand
Dried up and mute.
The passer-by had
Thought them cute.

The nights are long
The winter’s severe
Plants are dormant
Until the coming year.

People miss
The fountain’s hiss,
And children
Wander by.

Stone storks,
Aquatic function
Should stimulate
The passing set,
To anticipate
The returning jet.

Developed from editorial of N. S and N. March 1938

A concerted effort has been made
To pretend, that nothing has happened;
That we, are “back to normal” and only
Vaguely concerned with the tragic present,
And probably, still more horrible future.

Some people, still fondly hope
That with negotiations
An agreement
May save their interests.

Their line must be that they,
Will next use their dominant position
And wait, until our situation
Is so week, that we must accept
Their dictation, and give up hope.

Petit Bourgeois’ Dream

Why has it stopped,
The music, so charming?
Chatter of voices
And clatter of plates,
That’s the tune now,
Taking its place.

Handed the menu,
Beautifully presented,
A lengthy tariff
Blinding the vision;
For all kinds of mouths
And divers interiors

Don’t tread on my hat,
There, under the chair

I’ll have a starter
And try some of this,
Trays held aloft,
Going and coming,
Uniformed bearers
With order books hanging.

I must get out of it
The air’s too stifling,
Walls all covered
With synthetic marbling;
Glittering sham,
Of dayless light,
The petty bourgeois’ dream
Of earthly delight.

The Sun

Patterns thrown on the carpet
By sun’s extended fingers, stretched
Through vitreous transparency,
Onward moving, ever,
Tint the twisted branch,
Till eaten by the earth’s edge.
Burning the undressed figure
Spreadeagled on the beach,
Lifegiving skyborn heat
Moving eternal ambits,
Titillating the orbits.

Life Promotion

Sitting, by the arching-arbour
On a warm summer’s afternoon.
Wondering, at all the greenery
With colourful, erupting bloom;
Awaiting, the soothing touch
Of the deep, probing-tongued
Busy, midwife, caring bee.

The butterfly, silently flaunting
Cunningly painted surface
Settles, on a slender stem,
Then folds its delicate wings
Masking the sight of true elegance,
Staying utterly motionless, resting,
Summoning strength, for a further flight.

With invisible thread-like limbs,
Sprightly insects hover, in mid air;
Too soon pecked by the searching beak
Of the swooping acrobatic streak.
The flying, over-keen observer
With highly-tuned, pin-pointed sight
Scanning space, for tasty delight.

The water-lily’s floating flower
Spreads out on the surface of the pool
Ever waiting for the sun’s light
Without this need it shuts tight.
The dark flat-circular leafage
Shields the suspended fish
From searching, roving predators.

The climbing plant over-tops
Its multi-squared support
Clinging, with powerful embrace;
A living wall, of herbatious grace
Holding with twining tendrilled-grip
Cheating the wind’s destructive tug
To break this tenacious hug.

The sunken patio supports
Blossom-laughing containers.
The light, friendly, breeze’s
Sympathetic, strolling fingers
Set all, in gentle motion,
Until, the ravage of time
Ceases all commotion.

The Common, Snatching Time.

Have you seen wet grass, sparkle white?
Pools, mirror the heaven’s light?
The wire-encircled saplings, rigid stance?
The sleeping house-bound hound
Waiting the call to see it all?
Mother and child wander along
Each wrapped in the lilt of some unsung song.
Hands in pockets, pipe smoking,
Wifeless and alone, he stands at home,
Window gazing and lazing.
Blue, green, grey, and red, rolling by
They throw their glazed gaze back
Steering wheel in hand, into another land.
The child in the chair pushed, rolling by,
Without speech, he waves his hand.
Screaming when the pigeon lands
Thwarting the worm’s futile earth-bound wriggle,
With wingflap lift, returns to flight.
Shrinking cloud leaping, darting, and swooping
Free, soaring flight, for her delight.
Ground-bound we look around,
Snatching time, while time unwinds.

The Copper Beech

Dark, outstanding, in pigmentation
The beeches, tinted, arboreal, splendour,
Seen lining urban, house-bound streets,
Ruffled gently by the friendly breeze.
Returning from distant flight, pausing,
Birds pick out the parasitic nibbling mite,
Whilst concealed in the shielding branches.
The shafted sunlight, paints a golden glow,
A vibrant, shimmering, warm transparency.
The varnish, of the fresh descending rain,
Tinsel-dancing, adds an iridescent sparkle.
A landmark, in a cultivated garden,
Focusing the eye, in the neighbouring park,
Shading, the resting, close-knit couple,
Stimulating the avid searcher’s vision,
Complementing the all pervading verdancy.


The face takes heart
Behind the mask.
Horror and fun
Are directed out
To the unmasked,
Who respond,
With unbelief.
The tribal rite
The human plight,
Its frailty
Needs support
Not just talk.
Behind the mask’s
Protection, stands
The isolation
Of one
Lost, in the chase
To find a place,
In life’s race.

Paid by the Hour

The tophatted men and long mained horses
Have drawn up with glass-plated van,
They bring out the wreaths and floral crosses,
The bereaved creep, deep, into the heart of the carriage
Before gaping crowd, a curious lot.

Another come to the end of the tether,
Windows filled with peering faces,
Off at a pace, slow and stately,
Tardy respect he never tasted,
Accompanied by mourners, paid by the hour.
Pale, tawdry, show, undeceiving, and empty


Beneath Your Feet

Underfoot, slimy, the worm wriggles,
Loosening, excreting, the clotted soil.
Thread-limbed insects, burrow and dig.
Searching roots thrust, deep down,
Sucking nutrients, through capillaries
Fanning out, holding in equilibrium
The flora, ever growing, upper structure,
Pushing through earth’s multistrata.
The cunning mole’s ceaseless effort,
Tunnels passage networks, tirelessly;
Piles debris, loose and tidy, overhead.
Canines scratch, and secretly bury
Their crunchy, tomorrow’s relish.
Caverns, in rock’s millennial structure
Sheltered ancestors, long forgotten.
Stone crosses neatly, in rows erected
Straddle, mortal remains, far beneath.
Artefacts of other ages, awaiting
Searcher’s archaeological spadeings
Show evidence of lost skill and graces.
Snaking pipes, and wired utilities
Beneath the urban, hard foottread,
Peered at, through metallic hatches
Serve well, their manifold usage.
Fossil fuels, dormant, these ages;
Mine shaft’s deep-dug windings
Service both factory, and dwelling.
Ore’s metallic base, shot-blasted
Secures structures welded, bolted.
Crypts and cellars, a purpose serve,
One for praying, one for drinking.
Tread softly, a complex, activated
World, lies hidden, beneath your feet.

Sitting (Waiting)

Sitting, armchaired, in a room
Where the light picks out
Faces of those waiting;
Waiting for the bell to ring.
Breaths are bated.
No sound can break
The tensioned faces,
No word spoken,
Fearing what lies
In the nearing moment,
What is meant by their
Speechless bent?


Sky-thrown transparent liquid,
Unpiped, spreads a vast, undulating
Mirror, unresistant to touch,
Lapping at the edges of
Any vertical structure
From which it bounces.
Non river, non lake,
Non sea, or ocean.
Impeding land-tread
Encroaching, menacing.
Fluid, thought to be
Life enhancing,
Blocking movement,
Freely flowing,
Forming tiny islets
Of living units;
Wanted needs,
Rotting seeds.

Indian Earthquake 2001

At what price, survival?
Lifelong, drifting, loneliness.
Subnormal, unsound, makeshift,
Dwellings perfunctory, tainted,
Improper, unknowing slumbering
Potency, sheer mighty power,
Of released forces geodesic.
Anchorless, hidden ambushed peril
Halting life’s survival.

Digging, digging,
Grimly extracting
Unloving flotsam,
Leaving, drifting,
Hopeless, haunted,
Lonely, part-living
Bearing the weight
Of no-care building
Cold-blooded, infamous,

Indian Earthquake 2001

Underneath the pressing slab
No sound, but unknown dread.
Lying there, in motionless isolation,
Ignored by heavy multiple tread,
In airless cavern, they waiting lie,
Hope of life’s re-entry fast waning.
Sudden, and barely heard, a muffled sound,
Signal, igniting a searching frenzy
Of grinding cranes, lintels lifting,
Toiling hands, stoically grasping
Remains of crumbled, pressing, dwellings.
A grey, dusty hand, motionless, shows
Accelerating the searching, tireless, fingers
But only morbid silence, offends the ear.
Stifled pressure, too long extended
Releasing dust, and failing life
Instead of resurrecting


Dark and turgid waters
Of ever flowing time,
Flowing ever onwards,
Eddying, now with giddying whine;
For some, the haunt of pleasure
For others, the end of the line.

Darkness of Styx and darker,
Hiding much from our pride.
Placid deceiver, when,
Luring all the time
Tiny lights of livers,
Shining, in that face of thine.

Onward ever onwards
Cheating time from time,
Away there mingling
With the buoyant brine.
Onwards, travelling onwards,
Rushing, sweeping, gurgling.

Ever supine;
Barges on mud banks
At your side,
Burdens of a nation, resting,
While ceaselessly you glide
Trusting in your rhyme

Bearing now a shadow
In your deepest slime,
Holding tawdry tokens
Of moments that were divine.
Onwards ever onwards
Cheating time from time

Newly wed and life-tired bride,
Men inflamed with passion
Committing ghastly crime;
Your secrets to them you confide.
Drink for thirsty cattle
And bath for filthy kine.

Seen in your flowing tide
A whole new world you hide
Much like the one we ride,
There, quiet and peace abide.
Onwards, onwards, is your rhyme.


Well, It’s over now,
The sprinting days are wasted,
With weighty thoughts, unsifted,
Further, further, rolling, swaying,
The vocal sweetness lingers,
The nimble-fingered figure
Leaving a tactile craving.

Well, there’s no room here,
The full-tray passing,
Standing without motion, darting,
Clinging to the fragments
Of long evening’s murmurs.
Agile housèd doe
Energy as yet untrammelled.
The flowered hat, well balanced,
Gives poise, and grace much added.

Broken pictures of this kind,
The supple waist, wrapped arms, calling,
The shoeless feet, stockinged,
The eye glancing, quickly, then passing.
The calm child-pale hue,
All this for my delight.

The screen’s projection’s pale
The projector’s failing working
With dream eyes introverted
The operator’s musing
Recapturing the spent out reels
Their frames ignoring all sequence.
How futile now the mechanism
Reelless, power-plugged,
Spanning too long distance.

Now the sharpness comes,
A clearness more than clear,
Yes, that tiny nose-topped mouth,
Wet, made red, holding many murmurs.
Yes, It’s that that holds me so,
Or it’s the brisk-light tread,
The elf-child laughter
Of creased brimful eyes
Beyond the range of sense,
That added, hold me so.


Soft, illuminating spear,
Body brilliant yellow and heart blue clear,
Swaying, as the head of an adder, attacking,
Lit from a stick from a yellow packing,
Your gloom-piercing flare
Cheats the night of its share.
Smoke rises slowly form your spearhead, lapping,
On column unfluttted, whose substance you’re sapping
Sprouting from blackened worm, with red leer.
Your ultimate end, must surely be quite near.

Summer Evening

The argent birch, shines,
The sun, the trees caresses
Trodden grass-stems upward jump
From a verdant, land-locked ocean,
Feathered flower crests its foam.
Breakers trick the stealthy mariners
Fears they have, beneath the ocean.
Songsters in the bracken chirp.
Rose and rhododendron bloom,
Twigs, the canine swimmers salvage,
Children babble.

Central Aspect

The slag-heap growth
Contracts the planted land,
Yawning buckets mounting to the summit.

Slender chimneys reaching high,
Tearing holes in the sky.
Brick-plumbed spires, unsectarian,
Grey-blue all, scheme unmatched.

Snub-nosed engines, fussy, shunting,
Regimented rows of uniform vans.
Delicate lacework pylons,
Distance spanning, with too-long cables
Stand there, with four feet planted.

Gas containers round, and massive,
Expanding and lessening, most obliging.
Unnumbered and smashed panes,
Piercing walls, machines surrounding.
The plough-horse, steaming on yonder hill,
Knows not what these fill.

Even so, the vicar’s collar will not turn forward
And his mind looks ever back
Knowing all between the covers,
In heated warning, points the finger
To ages past, where his tissues linger.

In vestments grossly anachronistic,
Parrot mumbling foreign chatter,
Passing on the golden platter,
Getting always slightly fatter.
Kiss this ring, and dip that finger,
The mumbo moves, will week-long linger.



Lip to lip I’ve relished long
At cool day’s end, in sombre alleys,
The heat and throb of being
Tight-pressed, to wrought-iron railing,
Brimful moment, all-time holding,
With eyes lid-covered, seeing,
Pressing, still hoping to prolong,
Cherishing, fleeting, nimble fancies.

Her breasts silky, rose crowned,
Suckling men, her labour
Often have I buried in
Her luscious night-black tresses,
Seen her eyes, so close, deep places,
Bottomless, holding images, entrancing.

With parted limbs and night approaching
Never were two so firm cemented,
Monster unclassified eight-limbed,
Swaying with unknown upset.
Holding life’s unkept secret
Living only when the sun hides,
In no great hall displayed,
Unnumbered, though his issue.

Let me always hold you so
And linger in your breath exhaling.
Life this is, they did not tell me,
What are these strivings all about?
Here am I immune from rabble
Content to lie, full-stretched ever.
Could I all times by this fever
Be visited, only just as now?
Then I’ll know my wish is granted.

The Voice Unheard

“These are the steps
That you shall tread,
And none other”.
Saying these words
The clouds trembled, and
Through the tent departed
The host of unheard voices.

“Yet, shall you linger on”.
The sky-tent by now was pitched;
The canvas rudely shaken.
Lips that mutter, tight compressed.
Not showing inside flutter,
Must in any case be able
To formulate and utter.

I agree with the bird
That flies the air,
The world is pretty fair.
Say, I’ll show you things
You’ll ne’re forget,
Aye, many a wondrous sight,
At that glamorous time of early night.

I’ve got the world there at my feet.
The smoke-black yonder
Streaks the sky
And fades off, till it cheats the eye.
I’ll show you things you’ll ne’re forget.
You want a sight,
You’ll have one, yet.

With evening, in her pale blue clothes,
Flirting with the one who knows,
Her forehead as yet still furled.
So this is where you disappear
I’ve tracked you down to earth, right here.
Squeeze the clouds for want of water,
The twinkling sky-world will me lumine.

The plover’s crest will do the rest.
“You must know I’m breathless air
Soaring, flapping, plumeless limbs.
You must walk the treadmill there,
Footsore, and body aching.
You have no power of piercing seer,
Tread on ever you unhearing many”

Then the voice of the world’s mouth
Fluttered afar, with many tongues,
Till the void was left, in voiceless rungs

Song of Indolence

I’ll wear slender, silk-spun socks
And dream at daybreak, in ditches,
Rid my pet of patchy pox
In brown, last-year’s breeches.

Twirl unfurled listless hands,
Prance with pug on lengthy lead,
Breath in broad-pathed parks with bands
Loosely lolling inert indeed.

I’ll smoke cigarettes with spats on,
Trill a tune tricked from the movies.
Buy a kiddy a cute-wrapped bonbon,
Stuff my nose in long-stemmed lilies.

Send the sailor sliced-up sword-fish,
Stroke the flabby feline sleeper,
Lean on gates with grills grown lavish,
Keeping free from prowling keeper.

Tweak the tiny tender tumour,
Turn knobs and kindle kettles,
Sleep curled-up in the parlour,
Wander at noontide in wayside nettles.

Must we still be singing anthems?
Must we leap from towering gantries?
Must breeders grit-feed growing bantams?
Must food flow from musty pantries?


This arid life
Of bread-battling strife.
We have no occupation,
That’s the situation.

With training, specialised,
Not yet utilised,
They will not look,
We’re not in the book.

Or, if they do,
They look us through,
We’re left with our tellies
On grudging, parochial pennies.

Why keep waiting?
To survive another gruelling.
Oh yes, we’re all right
If the question’s to fight.

To protect our heritage,
Well, that’s the adage,
To dispense the killing,
And die without living.



Gaunt, bound to the soil,
Your life and ours.
Bared to face hardship,
We also have ours.
Branched, wind-agitated
We also are buffeted.

Gaunt, bound to the soil.
How deep are your foundations?
Ours are in the sand.
Your height is apparent,
Yet, we hack you down,
Food for our fires
And matter for our shelter.

Gaunt, and bound to the soil,
You stand.
We are more frail,
And have, but a mortal span.
Live for ever, and shade
The spent-out remains of man.

Sitting in the Lounge

Reclining in the sofa’s arms,
Feet-stroking the fleecy rug
Whilst awaiting the chance
To follow, with anticipation,
The next news-reading,
Is he dead? Or is he caught,
From a fruitless run?
The other got clean way,
Leaving no-found trace.

Shaking from a nodding-off,
The time has sped,
The news has passed.
Looking at the framed
Wall-hung print
Was he conjured up
By the artist’s mind?
Or was he flesh and bone?
Answer unknown.

White Dwellings

White dwellings, unevenly strewn,
Dotting the hillside sparsely,
Sheltered, tucked beneath the heights
Of craggy, stark, infertility,
Shielding the placid, grazing herd,
The bustling tractor, trailing.

Crowded, the distant metropolis
With office, bank, and teashop,
Tedious non-stop, idle chatter,
Carburants, thirst quenching
The sedentary flow, passing through,
Travelling life’s tortuous highways.

Tidily parked the white dwellings
Beneath roof-hung metal fingers,
Reclining in motionless contemplation
They view a flattened, rectangular world.
The white dwellings penetrate space
Defying pollution’s infamous race.


By the tome-stacked table
With coffee-cups, and mats;
Sitting back, drifting through trapped notions
On diverse themes,
Trying to explain
Without confusion
What it is that
Urged the scribe
To set out plain
Within the boards
A chapter-sliced
Of ideas collected
So skilfully directed.

Eating Out

Anticipating the laden-table,
Leaving the street-parked domicile,
Following the winding way,
Passing the anchored green light,
Noting the time of day,
Blinking the gleaming eye,
Looking for the inner warmth
And palate titillation
Rousing ones elation.

The swinging, creaking sign
Indicates the true spot.
Waiting for a designated place,
Seated, with provender listed
Giving careful contemplation,
Chit-chat consuming time
Until the platter
Ends the troubled chatter.

The knowingly-selected vintage
Tickles, with the lifted glass.
The luscious sweet, and
The too-hot-cup settle;
Sitting back in rotundity.
Grunting, feeling fine,
Pledging another time.

Molten Glass

Flowing to earth’s edge,
Unsure of it’s motion,
Swaying, this way
Then the other.
At times frenzied
At others meek.

Deep, molten glass
Hiding mysterious
Life abundant,
Restless and static
Burnished and gnarled
Vast and dainty.

The snow-trailing
Burdened craft
Seeks sanctuary
For full discharge.
The scooped-out hull
Returns, riding high.

Gusting trades raise
Restless pinnacles
Leaving behind
Uncreased troughs.
Sails, air-presses
Give propulsion a nudge.


Once Compressed
It returns fast
To it’s full height.
New life returns
After winter’s blight.

Breaking through
The barren soil,
The growing tips,
The cloud-clean sky,
Put a smile on our lips.

The returning flight,
The awakening from sleep,
The warmer feel,
The sprightlier tread
Kindle a new zeal.

Fresh hues replace
Winter’s drab palette
Sun and breeze caress.
When going out
She wears a new dress.


Delicate lacework,
Cartwheel structure,
Early, dew-spangled,
Cunningly spun,
Frail and flimsy.
Deadly precision
For sudden extinction.

It’s body segmented
The arachnid lurks,
With horny exterior,
Four paired-thread,
Limbs, jointed.
Motionless, awaits
At the web’s hub
A likely grub.

Passing, the insect
In searching flight,
Lands, entwined.
The shaken net
Alerts the stealthy;
A split-second pounce
And the cocooned
Is soon consumed.


The estranged life of the canine,
Existing with another species
Isolated, manipulated
Forced to acquiesce
To this other station.

From prowling ancestry
A wild and long journey,
Tamed by humans
For their own expedience.
Picking up the fallen game
From the hunters shoot,
Rallying in his flocks,
Sniffing out contraband,
Assaulting the miscreant,
Performing in the ring,
Pulling the ice-bound sled,
Guiding the sightless,
Testing out space.

We have found
A faithful, obedient mate,
Receptive to tutelage,
Responsive to bidding,
Overtly humanised.

The Blackbird

The perky marauder
Stalks and walks,
Seeking grubs in the grass
Extracting from its burrow
The wriggling worm, resisting,
Then, perched on a branch
Draws out the mite
From the crevice tight.

He returns continually,
Having made his claim
To his exclusive domain,
Ever making certain
From a height overlooking
Within foliage protection,
Making full inspection
In every direction.

Not frightened by footsteps
Of the human intruder,
Training the keenest eye
To feed his voracity.
His mate tags after,
Grey-brown and neat,
Shadows his jaunty steps
Hoping for a beak-treat.

His shiny coat glows
In the fickle sunlight;
His eyes constantly scanning
The surrounding terrain
Marking the favoured site
For further delight,
Checking no upstart
Dares take part.


Melodic rhythm
Incites, pulsates
Light beams mingle
Excitement enhancing.
The voice enlarged
By hand-held mike
Follows the tempo
Of the swinging group
The drumbeat
Marks the measure.
The tapping feet,
And arms flying
Raise the heat.
The sheer intensity
Gets the pulses racing,
Instinctively feeling
The synchronised motion.
The dark-packed halls
Structure vibrates,
The floor creaks
With the gyration
Galvanising the youth
Of the nation.


The peals summon
The faithful,
To holy places;
Lodged in the tower,
Unseen, weighty,
Multi-hand activated
In a known sequence.
The carillon’s voice
Travels afar,
Harbinger of delight
Or shattering fright
The delicate harebell
Stands silent, bedded.

The town crier
With clapper swinging
And voice tempestuous
Imparts the message
The masqueraders
Prance and activate
Their knee-grit
Jaunty jingles
The child’s rattle
And the tinkering cattle
Send a clear message
That all is stable

Dead Fingers

Now, gnarled and static
Supple and active once,
Fingers, unable to strike
Life, into motionless keys.
Tactile feeling, gone,
Tunes now, dormant lie in
Rows of typed notation;
In the memory played,
Silent echoes of melodies
Once throbbing with their aid