Preface
I hope this collection is, in the main, light and bright,
though it has its darker moments. I have taken as the title a line from one of
Robert Macfarlane’s marvellous and massively influential books on his
interpretation of the wonders of landscape, wildlife and our relationship with
the natural environment which I have taken as key themes in this collection.
Contents
Page
Flying on Rainbows – haiku 4-7
Bright Language of
Dragonflies
Sunday Morning 8
Riding Out 8
A Sort of Dying 9
Aurora 9
Our Animal Nature 10
Ghost Village 10
Such Small Feet 11
Weight 11
Circles in the Field 11
Luca 12
Rice Field 12
Flags 12
Monsoon 13
For Matthew 13
Sweeping 14
Toy Soldier 14
Tracks 14
Leaper of Hedges 15
Out of Step 15
Advance of Winter 16
Easter Day 16
Lessons on Breaking Up 17
Pirate Ship 18
In the Autumn of our Days 18
Guy 18
Formerly Young 19
Retirement 20
Legoland 20
Pilot 20
Guilt 21
Belgian 21
Dutch 21
Italian 21
Irish 22
Cooking 22
Celebration Time 22
Children 22
Armada 23
Crossroads 23
Weight Loss 24
Breathing Space 25
That January Feeling 26
New Hat 26
Closing Time 27
From Beneath the Awning 28
Our Glorious Summer 28
Planes 28
Age of Retribution 29
One Liner 29
Pants 29
Travelling Man 30
Jungle Beat 31
Whaling 32
Moonlight Dancing 32
Newspaper Boy 33
When I was Young 34
Hole 34
Fred 35
Colin 35
Blue-tits 35
Native Tree 35
Potty Training 36
Dirty Boy 36
Devonian Days 36
The Fourth Plinth 37
Celebrity 38
Bumble Bee 39
Garden Party 40
Wonderful Day 41
Walking Country 41
At Dawn 41
Voices 42
Daemon 42
To Keep my Fingers Warm 42
In the Company of Birds 43
Sanderling 45
I Shouldn’t be Laughing 45
And in the End 45
FLYING ON RAINBOWS
damp calm of autumn
the woods now empty of laughter
save that in my head
the whole forest creaks
a moaning in the tree-tops
yet calm and quiet within
bluebells in soft wood-light
luminescent haze of blue
lapping at the trees
frosty night tightens
street light damped by fog
somewhere a blackbird
January dawn
fizz and buzz of the city
rising from the streets
a flood of storm light
mountains fixed with needles of pine
thunderheads growl
glints of scattered light
everlasting snows
cast dragons on the hillsides
ignoring the wind
sun warming my neck pretends
summer has arrived
words drift away to
night sounds and constellations
I cannot name
I awake from
summer’s dream-filled sleep to the
cold ashes of dawn
tales from life at its best
told to amuse and amaze
now laid to rest
shrouded by leaves
a chunk of rotten birch wood
rescued from the rain
down from the high crags
a stranger reborn from
a world beyond speech
gripped by rock and stone
remade in tumultuous air
a different me
solitary maple
sheds a pool of yellow tears
so far from home
to welcome the children
to the gardens of Rowallane
chestnut lowers her arms
on a mountain peak
sudden crackle of lightning -
rapid descent
in the failing light
their loyalties displaying
pipe band marches on
at Spelga dam
the laws of science defied –
could it be fairies
here men of granite
maintained body and soul
working the Mourne Wall
tombed on this hillside
in the company of saints
on this blessed isle
wild cherry dressed
in a gown of blossom throws
confetti to the breeze
THE BRIGHT LANGUAGE OF DRAGONFLIES
SUNDAY MORNING
Listening for the first familiar bells
to ring across the morning
summon the sun to rise.
No sound but the birds’
faint stirrings in the blossom-laden trees
where bouquets of time hang expectantly
among fresh new leaves
exuding scents of freedom, wholesome possibility.
It was present in my childhood
breaking fast over an open fire when
something less hurried, less damning was in the air.
Cuckoos calling across the dale were also waiting
for the first church bells where I stored my soul.
Something of Easter day opened every Sunday morning
a frisson of understanding, calm and round and warm
on hearing those first bells ring
eternity all around me in the sunshine
until the silence – all rung out. 2013
RIDING OUT
Just to ride
sun on chrome
wind in my face
escaping house arrest,
the airless cell,
slow accumulation of dust.
To pull out the bars with a leathered fist
and off
just to ride into the night and beyond.
Suddenly the heavens open to me.
I can see the stars clearly and
even glimpse the shimmering veils
of aurora. 2009
A SORT OF DYING
Muffled sound
glottal whimpers
bubble into the pasty frightened air.
No reaction as a drill kicks off somewhere
gnawing through the tension
not even when she rustles in, prim and starched
slicing the air with her crisp uniform -
really only a girl - full of answers
though none robust enough
to shred the anxiety
embroidered on the shroud,
the crocheted squares sewn together to make a life.
A ripple of mirth squeezes through the door
an impudent cavorting just metres
from this lingering of limbs and sightless eyes
the gape that cannot say hello or goodbye
nor recall that lost love you prayed would be restored;
but perhaps to feel the stroking of her hair.
From a corner prayers ascend and briefly float then
where do they go?
Like unused hosts waiting to be consumed
or just to stay in the heart of the deliverer –
and that may be enough.
The eyes were closed that once read music
as it left the keys and rose like paper lanterns
fading with the pain or the fear
of something gathering in the shadows. 2014
AURORA
Out of the spirit world
phantasmic displays
shimmering out of nothingness
green-veiled dancers their
beauty sculpted from silence.
OUR ANIMAL NATURE
The walls of the chamber were damp,
a cathedral etched from amphibian stone,
tendrils and membranes
of a carcass blown and splayed
still dreaming of its long-ago river of birth;
a ferric smell of deep earth
a bloom of ammonia on the steady humid air.
We move deeper through dark entrails
trying not to crack our skulls or
slip on wet stone or lose the clot of light -
our guiding star,
as shadows dart and lope
reminders of our vulnerability
in this abandoned place, solemn, sacred,
our protection from the wild,
nourishment to our creativity
where we may only offer whispers.
Aware of that cold touch, I steady myself
with the sound of my breathing
and wonder at the glyphs and
petrified links to the world above
at the synaptic leaps that have sought solution
in tricks of the light
moving us on with our animal nature
until our age of forgetting. 2015
GHOST VILLAGE
Lichen has gripped the low ruins
where stone has slipped from abandoned stone.
The hearth now welcoming the sky,
while grassy ways tell of feet and wheel
and blood and sweat
and try hard to remember why.
SUCH SMALL FEET
Such small feet
such modest footprints in the sand
such worked fingers as I knew as a child
that baked and tended
that knew the war;
hands of everymum
that rippled the keys in rare moments
and lost themselves in delight,
that now drag wearily round the clock
through crescendos of pain and lucidity and fear
that pass in cloudbursts across her skin
her face, her smile,
through the girlish laughter in
eyes that once twinkled
in the voice I still carry with me
in deep impressions in my heart –
those modest tunes lost
such modest footprints long gone.
WEIGHT
There goes that man in the battered suit
bow tie and braces;
the woman alone in the café
we thought was a spy
stirring thoughts long gone cold.
There goes that young chap
we’ve seen many times before
buying fuel and roses;
and here are we
nowadays looking older;
none of us able to guess
the weight on others’ shoulders.
CIRCLES IN THE FIELD
The field conceals a secret
forgotten since the world
of ancient movements
and constructions,
abiding by ancient laws and customs
disclosed only to the sky.
LUCA
Our new-born grandson
swaddled in his cot
looking perfectly happy
and holy cow
I’m not sure how
but I’ve managed to change his nappy!
While the sun is about
I’d take him out
wrapped all snugly-wuggly
but a problem has accrued
in that I haven’t got a clue
how to collapse his buggy.
He’s not long had his dinner –
Scotch broth certainly a winner-
though most of it is patterning my shirt.
I’ll be glad when he is older
no more puking on my shoulder
or dampening my trousers with a squirt.
He’ll soon be sitting up
with his Tommee Tipee cup
making magic meals on his cooker
and we’ll all play along
tea and biscuits all day long
and thank the Lord he sent us baby Luca.
RICE FIELD
This land – dust dry
in midday heat slinking by
thirsting after the drips and
small gloups of the paddle
silent as the sun is high.
FLAGS
Flaunting their flags in a frenzy of hate
they who talk of a holy war
deal only in lies.
MONSOON
Cloud mountains move in
bruised in passage across a brooding sea
faint stirring of the languorous palms
a restless yearning for the break
from incessant heat and burning sun.
Breeze upon breeze causing commotion
among the surf and the crows;
an expectant calm thickens the gloom
cools the skin.
Gutters and the children wait open-mouthed
but no rain falls.
From my balcony
she moves, a proud ship in full sail
the drapes of her sari glide and swing
with barely a sound.
Time out of focus,
day to day, no-one seems to notice her
waiting.
Minutes swing by like hours
perhaps thinking of a long lost love
waiting for a call.
FOR MATTHEW
In growing light of dawn
you brought me to your house
welcomed me to your world
in which I dwelt awhile
feeling my rough skin peel
sampling new meats
learning how to become
relishing how to be.
And now on evenings I’ve returned
my dishevelled room seems meaner,
shabbier, the dust lying thicker than before,
air stale and water bitter
sand between my teeth
exposed and weak in the low voltage glow
that turns the walls yellow
then severs like a knife to leave me
with my only light, the stars. 2013
SWEEPING
Sweeping woman
caught in a pre-dawn headlamp
scraping the dust from the village
before the hot frenzy of morning.
Sweeping woman
caught in sulphurous midday torpor
scraping diesel sweat from her skin
to the rattle and buzz of the swarm.
Sweeping woman
caught in the crossfire of the setting sun
scraping rice from the sacred floor
where once shone a blessing
but where bright light shines no more. 2011
TOY SOLDIER
From behind the top shelf row of books
she brought out hidden things:
a small smooth shell
and many spiky ones,
a set of contact lenses lost long ago
when she was but a girl;
broken crucifix on a string of beads
tarnished gilt;
toy soldier leaden and peeling
broken gun, twisted bayonet
the one she had loved the best. 2012
TRACKS
There exists in a strip of woodland
A section of track,
Of no particular gauge, but a metre long
Embedded in earth
Bygone relic of the stone age
Connected to nowhere but the past.
LEAPER OF
HEDGES
In my prime I used to be
a leaper of hedges
shoulder height to a boy
I would make my run
having gauged the point of take-off nicely
and the angle of approach;
deep breath before springing from the
right foot
rising and rolling with the air
to tumble on the far side
in a cushion of grass
rising to my unwitnessed glory
and all in the space of a second
challenge met and won
a new and secret kind of mastery.
Then one day I was challenged by my pride
to leap in reverse
from soft lawn to unyielding slab.
I made my run
having gauged the take-off point
but not my landing
and as I sprang and rose
I knew I would not roll in the air
nor tumble and leap to glorious finale.
I almost cleared the hedge
thickset with haw and spike
but caught and fell.
As I inspected cuts and grazes
looking for observers who might have scoffed
I limped home forever more
knowing that as I grew
so would the hedge
and that somewhere in future
the hedge would win.
OUT OF STEP
Trying to follow the warp and weft of my own thoughts
I am out of step.
The pattern that guides has discoloured
blistered and surreal -
not the shroud I want to wrap myself in.
ADVANCE OF
WINTER
Old age was gaining on me
spreading irritation,
frustration
helpless to resist the frailty of bone
the slackness of sinew
in truth - to compromise
to abandon the distant hill
for the cottage garden.
Nothing was said,
avoiding those hard words
that could cut glass
hoping that by not saying
it would fade away,
by leaving it would not happen
but oaks falling unseen to the forest floor
still make sound.
The inexpressible was drifting into the room
like woodsmoke from a growing fire
and the elephant began to stir.
EASTER DAY
Such a watercolour morning
the brightest tints of heaven’s art
brushstrokes calm as the dew is fresh.
Faint stirrings of a breeze make
even the gnarled old olives smile –
such a fine day in the garden,
such a great day for a resurrection.
So gentle breezes,
lest you gather without warning
do not put a chill in my heart. 2012
LESSONS ON
BREAKING UP
This is the shoulder aged six I broke
trying to fly like fairybook folk
outstretching my arms like Peter Pan
but to crash on a stone floor was never his plan.
And so I learned without contradiction
that usually hard fact does not equal fiction.
This is the wrist and the thumb dislocated
as a teenager, by speed inebriated
when Dave Partridge’s scooter hit the kerb
and let a telegraph pole disturb
a knee-cap and elbow, a row full of teeth
as I landed on top with the bike underneath.
It took a hard brush and vivacious young nurse
to remove the road from my wounds while I cursed
that I hadn’t invested in a strong set of leathers
but still, lucky not to be flexing my angelic feathers
and despite the discomfort and feeling a fool
at least it got me the afternoon off school.
And this is the foot in my twenties I cracked
as a boulder of granite I carelessly whacked -
no beach soccer wizard I, no ballistic magician
as I winced all the way to the local optician.
This is the eye that I lost aged ten -
no Health and Safety way back then -
thrown by a jester, I caught the bat
that burgled my future just like that
casting a half-light over my soul;
avoiding the foolish became my goal.
So this is the person with wings clipped
leather-clad, bespectacled, buds nipped
who belatedly painfully writes to his Muse
about all the imbeciles he could accuse,
but not standing apart, a jar on a shelf but
grounded in his own shoes and including himself. 2013
PIRATE SHIP
Debris of the human tide
stranded in time and place
given new space of its own
lifted towards the moon
a resurrection of hope
nestling upon the breakwater.
This is not just for the kids
a generous heart, a black pearl
that beckons those at sea
to find safe harbour and
rescue future imaginings from the waves. 2014
IN THE
AUTUMN OF OUR DAYS
Days of winsome decline
soft heather still thrumming
with autumn kindness
slants of long light slide into
September’s sweet and tangy air,
mist over bare fields, jewels in the frost.
The sun has long looked the other way
as the heath changes her purple gown
flirting with the autumn browns
the polished bronze of the bracken.
Wild birds with the instinct of survival
spread their feathers and lift away
enacting in one day
the purpose of their summer: to rest awhile in Africa
while there is yet time.
GUY
Penny for the Guy?
Which Guy – and who’s Penny?
Has she fallen for this Guy?
Or maybe she dislikes the Guy;
Is he worth more than Penny?
How many Pennies is he worth?
Perhaps this Guy isn’t worth a Penny after all.
FORMERLY
YOUNG
When I was young
old men had fought at the Somme
been torpedoed by the Japs
survived the Burma railway
served God and King and Country.
They had metal plates in their head
shrapnel in their bodies
and tales to make your Pringles curl.
They had a distant look that said
I always expected to die.
But now I am of that demographic,
as the smart arses would say,
trying to hold off the inevitable,
broadening waist and narrowing mind,
tubby guy in a Steven Gerrard shirt
but fooling no-one:
Who is this silver-haired groover
listening to new music’
trying to keep up with the latest faces
trying to keep a finger on the dying pulse
riding Oblivion to keep in touch
with the life force he used to have
rowing against the current
or drifting back in time, no longer young
contemplating backpacking but settling for a cruise
wondering if I will be damned for not
serving God and Queen and Country
servicing our own desires.
But then, ageing could be good, liberating:
it could be grand, it could be wild
cause nobody cares about you anymore
you can do what you like
haunt motorcycle shops ogling the Harleys,
peruse the deserted record stores
be the tubby man in a Gerrard shirt
Peter Pan or Stringfellow -
no-one gives a shit. 2015
RETIREMENT
What joy
to wake late on a workday and realise ………………..I am
Free
officially excused, immune from
having to participate
in the day
free to
ignore the clock,
make grammatical mistakes and not care
to be happy
in the crowd
to be a
snoozing member of the audience if I wish
no longer
the sing er no
longer obliged to write the songs or
observe the rules of com position
free to
drift
or not
into oblivion.
LEGOLAND
Scrabbling through the tub
the dry hollow scratchy rumble
of assorted bricks
seeking missing links of an idea
evolving from a jumble of reject attempts
towards emerging grand realisations
on the fine structure of things
discovering windows and doors
from cerebral joys of plan, of form and pattern
to the test of simulation
the wonder of success
the perplexity of failure
spawning review and revision
progressing towards the happy repose
in the randomness
yet the logic of creation.
PILOT
I’m training to be a pilot - to fly with easyjet
I’m learning to land without bumping -
quite hard when dry but easywet.
I’ll be jetting about the continent
taking tourists to Paris and Rome
but when I partake in some kind of break
I’ll spend my vacation at home.
GUILT
You cannot leave it behind
nor leave it to die
for it will not lie down
and even though you may bury it
it will find a way anyhow
to creep out unexpectedly
and shout plain and clear
a reminder you were here
witness due
to all you have tried to erase
that will not die
until with you.
BELGIAN
There’s a Belgian come to live near us
he likes to show his muscles
makes out he is better than us -
hope he flex off soon back to Brussels!
DUTCH
Mr Boorman likes silence so much
though I’m pretty sure that he’s Dutch
he likes his house quiet -
perhaps we should try it –
his kids sleep outside in a hutch.
ITALIAN
An Italian chef called Bruno
boasts he is numero uno
’ I make my own pesto’
I said ‘oh is that so;
we buy ours in tins down at Tesco!’
IRISH
A wee Irish friend called Dugal
could play any tune on his bugle
you could take it as read the notes stored in his head
catch him on i-tunes - just Google.
COOKING
I hope I don’t sound bombastic
when I claim that my cooking’s fantastic;
my chips are a treat and such succulent meat
but regret that the cutlery’s plastic.
And when cooking I tend to get flustered
cause after perfection I’ve lusted;
I delight in my trifle but know that my wife’ll
smother the whole lot in custard.
CELEBRATION TIME
I’m wary of celebration.
I guess when it comes to the crunch
I could quietly dispense with the clothes that don’t fit
and the things I’ve been given to munch.
And with another birthday now looming –
well, and it’s only a hunch,
but I bet it involves Next and Primark
and Marks and Sparks café for lunch.
CHILDREN
Do you believe in children
though they bring little gifts like snot and nits
they are bearers of paradise
sparkles of glory
and carry in their infant hearts
a glimpse
of what the world could be.
ARMADA
The boy stood on the burning deck - his captain was aghast
‘I’ll teach you not to play with fire!’
and tied him to the mast.
‘It wasn’t me sir’ cried the boy ‘but the cruel and ruthless Spanish’.
‘Ha! You’ll be telling me next the wind will change
and all of a sudden they’ll vanish!’
‘It’s true, it’s true’ the boy cried out ‘There’ll be a mighty storm;
the Spanish fleet will be blown off course –
but sir, I’m getting warm!’
‘You can’t fool me!’ the captain said ‘Though I have no greater wish;
there be no storm predicted –
just ask Michael Fish!’
Right on cue a fearsome storm swept in from Biscay bay
too late to save the blazing ship
though the Spaniards were blown away.
The vessel sank, all lives were lost - no brave words in despatches.
The boy was blamed for everything
and accused of playing with matches.
CROSSROADS
Four roads met in a forest just long enough to say
How do you do, where are you going to? before going on
their way.
Four roads met at a roundabout - they all spun round and
round
‘We’re feeling a wee bit dizzy’ they cried then collapsed
upon the ground.
Four roads met at the traffic lights but all of the
lights shone green -
there was the biggest ever pile-up anyone had ever seen.
A man came from the council and said ‘These lights aren’t
working’.
The four roads started to chuckle and even the man was
smirking.
Four roads met on a hot summer’s day and one said ‘Fancy
a coffee?’
But on the way they changed their minds and went instead
to the offy’.
They sat by the kerbside and had a beer till one said
‘Hey, we’ve been boozing!
We can’t be seen here till we’ve all sobered up’ so spent
the afternoon snoozing.
WEIGHT LOSS
Delivered by crane some days ago
my hope of physical salvation
to locate and tone the muscles
unused since my confirmation.
I dragged it from its packaging
then dragged it down the hall
nearly gave myself a hernia
as I pushed it to the wall.
I set it up eventually
despite bizarre instructions
but could not get it working –
not by luck nor pure deduction.
I tried to pull the handles
pull the levers, set the tension
and all the other fidlings
that the manual didn’t mention.
Staring to get angry
wondering if I should kick it
I voice I knew said
‘Well done you. Get your own back –
that’s the ticket!’
She stood there in the doorway
hands upon her hips
looked at me in silence
a purse upon her lips.
‘I assume that that is paid for!’
she questioned with her scorn.
‘If not you can send it back.
You must think I was born
yesterday if you think
I am unable to interpret
this subtle little hint of yours –
I hope you think its worth it
by your implications
to risk our years of marriage –
a sodding great big rowing machine
now taking up the garage!
Don’t think I haven’t noticed
you eyeing younger women
comparing our chests and body shapes
and pondering whose needs trimming.
Well let me tell you sunshine,
and make it clear to you
I expect you to have lost three stone
before the year is through.
And failure to deliver
will reduce your Christmas cheer
‘cause there’ll be no roast or Christmas pud
and defititely no beer!’
Thus encouraged I set to
though it made me wheeze and wince;
my bum’s so sore and my knees are raw
‘cause I’ve been rowing ever since!
BREATHING SPACE
Your teacher won’t be teaching any more – the lifting of
a curse -
wedded to the chalkboard too long
now, heart-scarred, is the view from the shore better or
worse
a sinking ship
visions broken on the wheel
by the scourge of the agile and the lame
keel-hauled to an over-zealous whip
an inquisition seeking only to blame.
Though I’m inclined to feel
things will never be the same
the balance is towards the better -
nothing much to grieve
though a heart-felt plea: for health and sanity
let the body breathe.
THAT JANUARY FEELING
Short days, longing for
the return of life-giving sun
restoring power to old bones;
dodging the blasted weather
staying close to the fire
though counting blessings on frozen
fingers:
too cold, too dark to mend the gutters;
unwise to visit inlaws on those treacherous roads;
far too blustery for a stroll in the hills
whose spectacular views can be seen on the News;
getting lost in the fog
risking injury on untreated pavements;
and certainly no point hanging out the wash
or cleaning the car –
there’ll be rain or worse within the hour.
But hey!
This means you’re going to have to talk ......
No worries – sure to be something worth watching on TV.
NEW HAT
Whatever’s that upon his head!
It does nothing for his bearing -
still he needs protective headgear
but what is that thing he’s wearing?
It’s not so much that his head’s too small –
He could never be accused of that –
Its more the angle of repose
And the circumference of his hat. 2011
CLOSING TIME
You never say how nice I look
or how I’ve dyed my hair -
I often say how yours suits you
even though there’s not much there.
I ask you if my bum looks big
in this – you just say ‘no’ -
never even glance at me
then it’s off to the match you go.
You never think ‘It’s Saturday
never mind the weather -
let’s go down to Primark
do some shopping together’.
I wash and cook and iron for you.
What do you do in return?
Head off down to the bookies
like we’ve got money to burn.
You lounge around the house all day
slumped before the telly
admiring Carol Vorderman
and the flatness of her belly.
Equality of the sexes –
whatever became of that!
Well I suppose that I am equal
to the status of the cat.
Years ago you’d buy me chocolates
and once a bunch of flowers -
now all I get is an alarm call –
well, I’m counting down the hours
Till this relationship is over –
greatest ordeal of my life.
How have I stuck it all these years
with you for my wife!
FROM BENEATH THE AWNING
A growing heat wave this July
skin so hot, lips so dry -
far too hot to weed the beds
tend the borders, clip the heads;
not the time to mow the grass
clean the windows, shine the glass
wash the car, deflea the
cat –
certainly no time for that.
Tackle the laundry, tidy the shed –
can surely wait till the kids are in bed.
Better to wait for the weather to break
though I could perhaps manage that coffee and cake –
just to wet my lips and stop me from yawning
lounging here in the sun
‘neath my fine shady awning.
OUR GLORIOUS
SUMMER
What’s happened to our notorious weather
this long and glorious summer? -
Not a cloud nor breeze to disturb a feather
when normally it’s such a bummer.
And where have all the starlings gone
that splat my car for no reason
Probably pissed off to the south of France
Where hopefully it’s freezin’!
PLANES
Planes are coming in low tonight
well below the cloud
which is why I can see them waving
why the engines are so loud.
Sometimes I think they’re going
to land upon my roof
and if you don’t think they empty the toilets at sea
in my garden I could show you the truth!
AGE OF RETRIBUTION
And the earth gave forth a stench
that clung to the rocks
to the very air - even to the highest peaks
for there were no freshening breezes there
and in the rancid city of
countless million vaults
rich and poor locked their decay from within
and practised somersaults
to escape the skyfall that
filtered like dust in the mustard sun
till it thickly coated all the land
drifting foam, a scum
penetrating flesh and bone by
the smell and very breath of it,
and emanating from its very source,
the heart of man,
the cacophonous sound of the gnawing of rats.
And the Earth began to smile
at the rising of the sun
Just another day of millions
in the age of retribution.
ONE LINER
Can’t have a one line poem, they said, so I said this is
it!
…………… though I’m sorely tempted to expand it and make
words and rhymes that fit.
PANTS
Tony’s into climbing trees
and getting higher and higher;
One day he’ll get too close to the sun
and set his pants on fire.
TRAVELLING MAN
They said he was a travelling man -
had sailed the seven seas
managed to stay tough when seas were rough
but threw up in the mildest breeze.
They said he was a travelling man -
nowhere he hadn’t been
from Timbuktou to Kathmandu
served his country and the Queen.
He once floated down the Amazon
in a genuine dug-out canoe
to search for rare animals while a bunch of wild
cannibals
was eyeing him up for stew.
While crossing the Gobi desert
his camel near died of thirst;
he followed the track with it on his back
‘Bloody Hell, you’re heavy!’ he cursed.
On the summit of Kilimanjaro
he frolicked about in the snow
having trekked through the night to catch the first sight
of an African pre-dawn glow.
Had he ever met an Eskimo? – Aghast
he said ‘call them the Inuit!
They’ve a strong inclination to be called a nation
if they had a national anthem I‘d sing you it.
Trekking the Canadian forests -
just caught a fish from a river
a grizzly came over and so he moved over
and they shared it with boiled rice and liver.
He got on so well with the natives -
always trying to speak in their lingo
but if the going got hard he’d just take out some card
and show them all how to play bingo.
The travelling man was a legend -
such narrow escapes and adventures
that quite make you shiver – like when he camped by a
river
and a crocodile swallowed his dentures.
But wildlife didn’t perturb him
though not well disposed to a snake
or a black widow spider with poison inside her -
if bitten there was nothing to take.
Yet he carried a small first aid kit
though no dentists around for a call out
and to drill your own teeth would give him such grief
he decided on having them all out.
He said he was a child of the 60’s
in Frisco he dressed like a hippy;
now in late middle age he suffers road rage
when he can’t park outside his own chippy.
When attempting to cross the Antarctic
chose his car over dog-sled or bike
although there’s no road, there is no Highway Code
and he could park it wherever he liked.
The attempt was made in mid-winter
forty below at best.
To enhance such a feat of endurance
he refused the warmth of a vest.
Which was the worst place he’d coped with?
His face muscles tensed and flexed
with no hint of delay he leant forwards to say
‘the January sales in Next’.
JUNGLE BEAT
I threw aside the tent flap
And felt the jungle heat
Quickly packed the equipment
That was strewn around my feet.
There arose a mighty howling noise
In the tree-tops nearby;
No ape or bird I’d ever heard
Made such a fearsome cry.
With pounding heart I staggered out
Into the sultry morning
Camers poised towards the noise
Then suddenly with no warning
Something struck me on the head
For my life I greatly feared
But by the time my senses recovered
What it was had disappeared.
WHALING
She threw aside the sail cloth
and felt the bitter cold
gathered the equipment
that was strewn around the hold.
Then as she packed her rucksack
she heard a mighty whale
thrashing in the water
something clinging to its tail.
Seemed like just yesterday, she thought
campaigning to free Willy
waiting for that perfect snap –
or one completely silly.
She quickly scrambled up on deck
to gain a closer look
at what the whale was wrestling with –
a nasty fishing hook.
Not fearful of the danger
she leaped onto its fin,
released the barb most carefully
and put a plaster on its skin.
The whale seemed very grateful
to be once more free and healthy
so much so, before he turned to go
they together took a selfie!
MOONLIGHT DANCING
(after a painting – The
Dance – by Paul Rego)
The night of a full moon
we come down to the beach
to sing the old songs
to remind and to teach
how to dance the old dances
with the sea out of reach.
Men in their best suits
their women in frocks
dance on in seclusion
between headlands and rocks
in those timeless traditional ways
we’ve pledged between tides
till the end of our days.
NEWSPAPER BOY
(Confession of)
Throwing wide the curtains on another frozen morning
I look towards my still warm bed and listen to the high
wind warning -
dawn not yet arisen but another dismal day
almost succumb to temptation but duty got its way.
Flung the sack about my neck, pedalled off into the dark
trepidation where bad dogs live, their bite worth more
than their bark.
A hundred papers later and frozen to the marrow
I’d cycled all the city streets – the crooked, straight
and narrow
I can barely grip the handlebars but a dozen left to post;
dogs are snapping wildly but frostbite scares the most.
You don’t appreciate that hardship accompanies each
delivery
returning home exhausted, windblown, wet and shivery
especially on a Sunday – so-called day of rest -
no breakfast till the job is done – mid-morning at best.
So on this day, I admit to say, and please forgive the
blip
I failed in my sacred mission - dumped the whole lot in a
skip.
WHEN I WAS YOUNG
When I was young
I trapped spiders in jars;
tadpoles on the sideboard
swam in a vase;
caterpillar in a box
wriggles an squirms
but not quite as much as
my vast collection of worms.
I used to get close to most crawley things -
hairy or scary or ones that had wings;
they’d be in glass boxes for everyone to see ‘em
all round the house – a crawley museum;
Each one provided with all they could need
but with my mum’s intervention
eventually freed.
To my kids I say ‘Come and look at this creepy crawley –
not afraid to pick it up, surely!’
But now I am anxious about scurrying legs –
I much prefer something that sits up and begs.
I used to brush cobwebs down from my ceiling
and tease my sister who’d run away screaming
so why am I mindful of such tiny creatures and,stranger,
why do I think that they pose any danger?
Mini beasts have always been around
whether lurking in bushes or close to the ground
I bet there are loads very close – go and look,
in your clothes, in your shoes, in the pages of a book.
I still sweep down cobwebs and hoover the mat
beat out the mattress and
de-flea the cat.
I buy mothballs and pellets and poison and bleach
squirt under the rim where creatures might reach.
Pursue any woodlouse down to appear,
Render it homeless, or at least fill it with fear.
Ants by the thousand , roaches galore
Better watch out cause there’s trouble in store.
Tip-tapping at night on the bedroom floor
‘cause now I can’t stand ‘em – can’t stand ‘em no more.
Though they’re always here with us
to the end and beyond
I swear I’ll never again
scoop newts from a pond.
Respect for all creatures, Attenborough preaches.
Well, I’ve read Tarka the Otter and I shun turtle beaches
but I don’t want to live among snails and slugs
or any other invertebrate bugs
that decide they want to live at ours –
they’ll certainly not end up in jars.
And when the creepies return
To my body worth tuppence
They’ll get their revenge –
I’ll have got my come-uppence!
HOLE
A hole has appeared in my garden –
you can’t see to the bottom.
If there were fairies or elves down there
I’m sure that we would spot ‘em.
FRED
I found a bogey up my nose
and thought I’d call him Fred;
I stuck him on the window-sill
while I was asleep in bed.
I sometimes take a toy to school
but now take Fred instead
and when it’s time for playtime
take Fred to show the Head.
At least, those had been my plans
but now he’s buried by the shed
‘cause when I woke up in the morning
Fred was dried up – dead.
COLIN
Colin used to be my friend
but his pants have gone all farty;
he came to my house yesterday
and ruined my birthday party.
BLUE-TITS
There are blue-tits in my garden
I love to hear them chirping;
I gave them fizzy pop to drink-
now you should hear them burping!
NATIVE TREE
Once mighty native tree, once alive
breathing the hot humid air of the forest
shelter to insect and bird
that once knew the feel of snakeskin
over its branches,
the delicate tread of the leopard.
Once lived that has been sawn and chiselled
to make a womb for new life and the dead. 2014
POTTY TRAINING
My botty on my potty goes
plop plop plop;
but I’ll spill it if I fill it
to the top top top.
Mummy says to stop it
it might slop slop slop;
then it’s slippy slappy sloppy
with the mop mop mop.
DIRTY BOY
My brother’s school friend came to tea and though he’s
almost eight,
he let his nose run like a tap and splash upon his plate.
He didn’t have a hanky and incurred my mother’s wrath
by blowing all his snot into her floral tablecloth.
He finished off his pie and chips as fast as he was able
got down from his place and did wee beneath the table.
‘You dirty boy’, my mother cried. ‘What would your
teacher think?’
‘Well usually from this distance’ he said ‘I can get it
in the sink!’
DEVONIAN DAYS
Below the surface of the land
and of time
forgotten tropical worlds
lie motionless but
bear our memories of trees,
shadows lengthening along the river
dipping toes with time
waiting for birdsong,
for the flit and hum of insects
for the lumbering maul of reptiles
through forests of fern and cycad.
But for now, just the sound of the wind,
a pattering shower to assuage the thirst
of future worlds, and the
occasional splash of fish in bright water. 2015
THE FOURTH PLINTH
We first moved into the area
when they first made buildings tall –
they were like the very sea cliffs
off the coast of Donegal.
They provided nooks and crannies
and lots of sheltered ledges
it’s been standing in Trafalgar Square
for ages uncontested
so I’d like to make a bold case for
a patriot much neglected
avoiding the feet of posh-nobs –
even monarchs come and go
scattered by the wheels of carriages
escape by the skin of a toe.
When fires raged all around us
St Paul’s engulfed in flame
we retreated to the cornfields
but returned here just the same.
We watched our numbers dwindle
but no tears did we cry
no complaint when with no restraint
you made us into pie.
When searchlights probed the night sky
and sirens filled our ears
we still believed in crumbs of hope
and set aside our fears.
Against armies of pedestrians
we’re forced to fight all day
but all your nets and wires
have failed to drive us away.
I’m still around the fountain
still trying to strut my stuff
at risk of being trodden on
but this city’s made us tough.
Now you see us as a nuisance,
to the tourist an irritation
but it wasn’t all that long ago
we were an ikon for the nation.
We never asked for very much –
Just a place to take a nap
an occasional ruffle of feathers
and somewhere to freely crap.
And even as the east wind bites
there will come some lonely hag
from the palm of her hand to feed us –
only tuppence a bag.
So let there be no dispute,
of doubt not the slightest smidgeon
that plinth was meant for me –
your humble London pigeon. 2014
CELEBRITY
Star of TV soap and screen
she often trod the boards
put on such performances
was destined for awards.
I’ve heard her voice so many times –
not short of radio fame –
plays intense romantic roles –
now what’s her blinkin’ name.
You’d recognise her husband –
politician, almost bald,
introduced some Bill that failed,
but what on Earth’s she called.
You’ll know her mother instantly –
a land girl in the war,
captured a German soldier
and hid him beneath her floor.
They fell in love but didn’t wait
for attitudes to harden and
as soon as peace broke out they went
to live in Bertgesgarten.
Had a brother you sometimes saw
play a pantomime dame –
not so different from life, they say
but what’s her friggin’ name.
Daughter became an actress too
renowned the whole world over –
You know - eloped with her chauffeur
and now lives on the outskirts of Dover.
Just recently in the papers,
on covers of magazines,
appears in TV commercials
for stairlifts and margarine.
But such outrageous demands she makes
weeps, with nothing to cry for.
I can picture her mascara dribbling
in a dressing room to die for.
Renowned for histrionics -
ever so highly strung –
child prodigy by the name of ......
it’s on the tip of my tongue.
Well, perhaps a wrap will be called
to close her final curtain.
She’ll get a lifetime achievement award
then I’ll know her name for certain. 2014
BUMBLE BEE
Hey, man on TV,
who simply referred to me
as the common or garden
humble bee,
Wake up, I’d like to say to thee –
I am proud to be a bumble bee.
I may to you seem like a flitting fumble bee
a plain Sunday roast and apple crumble bee
but without me you would have no crop
and the future of your kind might find
ends in a full stop.
And do you think the price of honey would drop
if it wasn’t for the likes of me?!
So be thankful I’m no grumble bee
to see your honey flow tumble bee;
perhaps you could praise and reappraise
and yourself a little more humble be.
GARDEN PARTY
Welcome to the garden party
to the best, the heart of the nation
whoever from wherever
the bearers of inspiration.
Welcome to the flouncy hats brimming
in filigreed finery thrilling
to the brisk London breeze;
and to the shiny booted
the shiny headed and suited,
braces grabbing the creases
before they fall out in disgrace – welcome.
Managing the cucumber and cress
serviette in case of a mess,
petit four and cream sherry -
so wonderful you are here today
to celebrate in our special way.
To thank the preservers of
heritage and history, the
authors of crime, romance and mystery,
the poets and painters
musicians and physicians,
the dedicated ladies who serve up school dinners
the magnificent nurses, the Nobel prize winners,
all those fine surgeons of ear, throat and noses
now stroking the dogs and admiring the roses;
the entrepreneurs and vehicle exporters
the aid campaigners who continue to exhort us
the battlers and survivors
the deep sea divers
the volunteer workers
the widows of heroes
the Paras and Ghurkhas.
Lollipop patrollers out in all weathers
the carers of those at the end of their tethers.
So its cheers and hurrah for the flouncy hats
the shiny shoes and the novelty braces,
cheers and hurrah for the stars of the screen
for Wimbledon and the Epsom races;
and it’s cheers and hurrah to an upstairs window
while the band plays ‘in dulce jubilo’.
WONDERFUL DAY
Just how wonderful this day –
a prize that’s so amazing
though we don’t all feel the wind
or hear the vibrant birdsong
behind our double-glazing.
WALKING COUNTRY
The rhythmic crunch of boot-heels
disturbing rivulets on the gravel path,
sludging through the boglands
of resistance and judgement
connecting with the wild.
Heart and lungs, ears and eyes
seeking a means of forgetting
of making peace with pain
not to feel every cell aquiver
in anguish. But to feel ecstasy
flushed of material ambition,
desirous of calm, inseparable from this world around.
No boundary to mark where we met and merged,
death and rebirth open as the hills
to mystery and beauty,
in receipt of wisdom and understanding,
ready to begin anew.
AT DAWN
I’ll wake at dawn with diamonds in my eyes
to hear the cuckoo and the wren and watch my true love
rise.
And I will feel the spirit move the love within my breast
and sense no ill nor pain, nor fear my day of rest.
For I never broke the fairy ring nor hawthorn tree cut
down
but danced on the thirteenth moon of the year to wear my eternal
crown.
VOICES
Children gather at my feet
and perhaps will bless my memory
with the song of angels, in the dark
their voices guiding me.
DAEMON
My heart is pleading: come to me;
this is where you want to be.
Fly to me low and fast
to your refuge on my shoulder
Ignore the towering clouds
the darting swifts, the open field,
the wind that pushes through the trees behind you.
Fix your brilliant eyes on me and fly
to where I am, my daemon
when things go wrong and the world shudders
frustrate the flight of time.
As I gaze on you, be salve to my grieving heart.
TO KEEP MY FINGERS
WARM
It made my heart lighter
to touch the things he had touched
to be around his things
to share his appreciation.
No fancy possessions –
just stuff that
in time would find new owners.
I put my feet in his slippers,
sat in his favourite chair
shared his favourite malt.
I put my hands in his pockets
as I did when I was a child
to keep my fingers warm.
IN THE COMPANY OF
BIRDS
ancient flyways
older than all the nations
transcend the ploys of men
from the ends of the Earth
to find that same small space
migrants return
following their flightpath
on a perfect parabolic descent
that ends in a splash
watching the lake
light descending from heaven
time and mind in the now
skilled in mystery
over vasts of ocean and air
the spirit of being
through innate wisdom
an over-riding order
to persist beyond our own
solitary
bird
sings to the
new-born day
to share its
warmth
LAPWING
I only come to admire
your theatrical display,
your flouncing and tumbling
to lure, to deceive
till you get your way.
keeper of secrets
standing in the rain –
lost
in secrets of your
own.
SANDERLING
Darting on their pins
along the curling lip of the tide
standing alone
waiting for the secretive tide to turn
and leave something wonderful,
here they have laid their eggs
since long before we came
to eat our fish and chips and
slump in gusty deckchairs
or sit in cars sipping tea and
peering through misty windows.
Sanderling picks unheard
at the seaweed plaits
at the edge of the land
on the fringe of time.
I SHOULDN’T BE LAUGHING
I shouldn’t be looking in the mirror.
I vowed to take care of things
so I shouldn’t be playing cards
or Scrabble yet;
I shouldn’t be eager for the footy results
or listen to my music loud beyond
what I need just to hear it;
I shouldn’t be thinking of redecorating
or taking a trip to Spain
or stocking the fridge
or hosting a party
or laughing again. 2002
AND IN THE END
And in the end
it’s the words in my head
at play with Emotion and Reason
a little bit of Fun to lend
that drip, random as raindrops
growing together in private Truth
felt fondly on the inside
displaying my perfect scent
and Sense blossoms its eternal season.
