Thursday, 21 September 2017

Gramophone

Model 157  comes in oak at £22-00-00
replete with HMV decal

and then there’s Jupiter Picnic
or the Zonophone Grafonola
with sonata soundbox 

(you’ll need graphite grease
and a tungsten needle)

Rexine© and brass backed No:4
has a ball bearing tone arm.

I’ll share chicken legs 
with Nipper from Bristol, 

wear a cloak of bronze

drink champagne in the magnetosphere

Saturday, 16 September 2017

Pictures In The Morning

Footsteps and a buzz in the receiver 
of the forgotten phone. 

One sound follows another, 
thoughts get delayed - hooked 
on invisible obstacles, and thinking 
is like wading through water - or snow.

Either way, the scenes
will be framed, hung
on walls after making
spirit level adjustments

the elongated bubble 

floats, finally settles

Tuesday, 12 September 2017

Polaroid

Hotel pool in a polaroid 

pressed, 
submerged 

between fathoms of pages, depths 
of paperbacks to surface now 
on a grey noon
with sun bellies and beer glasses
stripy trunks and floral costumes -
odds say most of these package deal bathers
are now lounging in the cosmos.

In this white frame 
they still recline

and - out of the shot

a white wall and blood
red tubular bars

the paint peels 
to reveal scars of iron rust.

An olive-green lizard basks
and there’s no-one to tell

Tuesday, 29 August 2017

Lizard Dream

Hoodwinked
in lizard sleep

your skin 
turns pewter
your blood
silver

all the sounds around you

the caw of the jackdaw
the wind in the leaves
of the magnolia trees

the silent trumpet
the gramophone horn
white convolvulus 

the sounds bound for an ear
that hears the music of a bubble
the tremor of a cat’s whisker

hears the colour of dreams

Wednesday, 23 August 2017

In The Catacombs

In catacombs of honey cells
the drip and ooze of hexagons
and the moon bridge crosses
streams full of stars.

In the glowworm depths of hedgerows
I travel south of reason. 

The heart navigates where the moon makes mirrors.

Tall trees and momentary indecisions
wind whispers through the leaves -
a ragged wind 
and the weather vane 
set against silver.

I am like a man 
who has missed the last train home.

I follow a light up ahead where a fragment
of summer sky splits the night.

Silver letters shine on a sign -

I have been this way a thousand times before
even though the path isn’t where I left it.

Night forks, orange flames
the sky fills with black butterflies
and it is like looking in the mirror tilted -
nothing quite corresponds, the distance 
between memory and reality.

White roses at the tomb of the unknown farmer
where son predeceases father.

The red fox runs the shadows 
of the hill, barns and farms 
on distant hillsides 

I wonder if I should go back to the beginning -
start all over again.


A ghost turns my pages
keen to read a story that hasn’t been written.

I try to keep up although the pen
has a mind of its own and won’t be rushed.

And what if I could? Write the end
and tell the tale in reverse?

Streams full of stars
bridges on the moon
drip and ooze of hexagons

in the catacombs of honey cells

Pages

Morlock Oil

Morlock Oil
A new collection of stories available now . Click on image for details.

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery
New Chapbook Available (email rockinahill@gmail.com for details)

Furrow

Furrow
Bunchgrass Press

Essential guides for the journey...