Friday, 29 April 2016


Slices of agate set in an iron web. 

Lots of kitsch around today: 
wind chimes, dreamcatchers, 

After awhile you learn to live with it.

By the time you get home 
you already miss it.

Wednesday, 27 April 2016

The Buzzard

The buzzard waits in his tobacco colours
hunches on the grey rim of a galvanised trough.
Waits and watches like a judge in the courthouse
life and death in a taloned balance, chills
in the morning sun. Yellow fields
that seem to be waiting, a bruise
in the face of the low sky that gets 
closer, you can feel its touch
as you pass on through.
The weather man says
sun, storms, snow:
an improbable forecast so
strange it must come true.
Later, lightning and blue thunder
in an afternoon blizzard.
And the buzzard still waits 
in his invisible tobacco colours.

Saturday, 23 April 2016


Repeat of a refrain, 
and over 

Made on earth, not of earth 
I take stock, stand on stairs 
aware/not aware of dust 
under my feet as I cast 
about for the old music 
that is less instant 
and has to be worked at 
and over 
before pattern 
and pleasure 
is gained. 

She says things don’t feel right if they’re not worked for. 

This verbal snapshot might serve as some kind of motto. 

I can’t find the thing I’m looking for. Instead, the yellow 
sound of a road sweeper fills the light filtered by the curtain. 

I remember a serpent shaped road, a Vauxhall Viva 
or Ford Cortina parked outside every Lego brick house.

Wednesday, 20 April 2016

The Acoustic Guitar Is An Old-Time Time Machine.

A chord is played, 
the Green Man lets himself quietly into the room, 

drops twigs and leaves from his beard as he goes, 
raises a glass.

Sunday, 17 April 2016

A Morning Song

Black and blue, silver green and grey
ripple upon ripple running away.
Stone and boulder, one on another
a head as they say
firmly on his shoulder.

And the wind blows through the shadows, 
shades cast by clouds
twisted trees, 
lone crows
ragged leaves

over the black, blue 
silver green and grey
ripple upon ripple 
running away.

Thursday, 14 April 2016

Clouds Of Vapour

The procession reaches the brow of the last hill and it is at this moment they turn as one, pale faces and lank hair hanging long in perfect synchronicity as if posing for the camera before dropping over the horizon and vanishing forever, clouds of vapour filling the space they once occupied.

Wednesday, 13 April 2016

One Way Ticket To The Moon

A red signpost points in two directions, Anderson and Bloxworth in white letters. The left points across hills towards the coast, the right to the town where justice is served. Men in thin shirts are led in chains and manacles for all the townsfolk to see. The men keep their eyes to the ground and no-one shouts at this procession. There but for the grace of God go I … The men are heroes although no-one has the nerve to cheer them either. The march continues over the hills in a cold shroud of mist. Apart from an occasional cough the men are silent. There’s no audience now and the men still keep their gaze on the ground, their time in this land measured out in hours as the sea greyly rolls between spaces in the hills. Time in this land? It might as well be time on this earth, the voyage into the unknown like a one way ticket to the moon in return for stealing a shilling.

Sunday, 10 April 2016

His Master’s Voice

A scratched 78 crackles in the pipes of your lungs. 

Goodbye wife...goodbye child...

Alone, you trust to Sat Nav. 

The temptation is to ask someone the way: an archaic act in an age 
when everyone is just passing through. 

You walk a narrow path. See your grandfather wearing a copper bangle. 

The river is a little further along the way.

Friday, 8 April 2016

The Bone Pipes

Bone pipes 
in hollow arcs 
rise to a point. 

ribbed within. 

White light follows 
sinews of stone. 

The light rises, 
the arcs meet, 
spire tips 
support a sea. 

Two eyes, dark lanterns 
fix the shore. 

Blue lines roll 
like interference 
across a TV screen.

Sunday, 3 April 2016

Next Season

Pewter sky vistas 
parallel lines 
of red brick villas. 

Crows thrown on the wind 
cut through the clouds 
inside your head. 

These streets with their cracked pavements 
and scalped hedgerows that nonetheless 
find spaces to get a little out of control. 

The barber’s scissors shear 
ten years from the ears 
and the talk is always of next season.

Saturday, 2 April 2016

Pick Up Your Spoon. Eat

Parsnip pureed 
with windfall apple 

tastes like a knife 

(if you get the balance wrong)

so much depends 
on texture, 
age and bruising. 

(Get it right and the broth smells like a new born baby’s head)

with shadowy crosses 
play tricks 
with moonlight.

of visible air 

push through 
timpani meshes 
of speakers 
to cause tremors 
in floorboards.

She serves 
blood red soup 
in a skull for a bowl 

we sit before a TV 
that opens like a wardrobe 
on a mothball world 
(torn apart)

nothing more to say: 
pick up your spoon. 


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