Its is only when I am afar and alone My three loves, That I see you clearly. Glittering, Poured like wine over silver, You are my roses and my rain. Hard on the ice-bound edge of the year Or drowsy in folds of a summer meadow, I sleep with your dreams running sweet through my song And know you, In truth, As the only gold. I am always in awe of your matchless light, But ever I aim where my strength will not follow, So I am Icarus and you are the sun And I die for your joy and am glad in my sorrow.
He walks slowly Treading the monastic track delicately As if he were en route for Marks and Sparks By way of Woolies. He doesn’t catch the scent of pines in the evening light Or the depth of green in bracken On the threshold of August. He sees the discarded wrapper And vents his middle-English spleen On the despoilers of the land. He sees the spent cartridge And unrolls his wrath for the Nouveau riche Flash bastards. He is a sad man and I am sad to be with him In his bigoted, blighted bubble. Pointless though it may be to point him at beauty I cannot help myself, But he can only see what he believes, And he believes blindly.
Crisp cloudflakes brittle and horsetail the sky. Ewes are clenchnailed to the greenscape and understudded by lambs. Curlews carve sickles of song in the ethereal cup of light. Blubbering thighs, dimpled as tripe Carry the sagging belly of the city Across the gaunt boned fells, Flapping map cases and dribbling melted vanilla children in their wake. Such tides of fevered longing have I seen Ebbing and flowing In what they call their eyes That you would fear to know What is passing through What they call their minds. But time is merciful And, like mayflies, Their passing is swift and complete. As the bankholiday sundaymonday sunshine fades, So they to the steaming pits and towers of mammon
The First of the Last Days
Moving from darkness to light From North to South From love to love. As the morning comes so the light comes Shifting the eastern skyline from imagination to reality.
Smudged finger painted towns grow and fade Beyond the time smeared glass. Northern orange street lights turn Pale Midland rail towns turn Blue London slate.
In the morning river flowing underground I am looking out of eyes A thousand years old At the journey everybody makes sometime.
Through steel cathedrals and grey washed warehouses Through monoxide rattling skies and the insistent pull of memory Through birdsong heard above the white noise of conversation To brutal concrete muted corridors and a last breaking through of tears. I have not arrived too late But I will wish forever that I had arrived earlier.
I keep wondering if this is goodbye. Not a real farewell but A shrugging off of one life And a putting on of the stiff fabric of the new. Are you leaving for a while or forever? Can I lay down my memories like wine And take up the tools of my old age now? Or will you be back for one triumphanty blast Before the mooring ropes are slipped. What do I hope for Except to hope for the best?
Sometimes I Talk To You
Sometimes I talk to you. Sometimes I hear you. But I miss you so much when I have news to tell. Who is there now to hear What only you are waiting for?
If I Close My Eyes
If I close my eyes you’re so close That I can touch your within from without. If I close my eyes this fable fades away. I know the truth without the need of proof, And I can feel you Together.
In The Gardens
Wood pigeons hoot in harmony In pasadoble time Waiting for the rain.
Flower stalks and cedar, Flagstones and shadows, Buff tailed bumblebees And lavender. She dips her hand to the herbs And lifts it, Smelling something wonderful.
Pictures of New Year Day
Blue pink sky, high pale moon. Grey muttering ducks in ochre rattling reeds Spatter the slow brown burgling river. Ice crusted grass splintered under boots, Beside fossil bike tracks chiselled in stone hard mud.
All sounds pin sharp, razor thin, All words newly minted, Smoky breathed in the shiny year. Gallons of last year’s rain glaze the field edge, Puzzling sheep gazing to grass ungrazed
Through rough rippled windows. Two children happy as Bruegels Surfing ice panes on the solid pond. And you holding my hand In the cold bright arctic sun.
I have never done my best for no-one. There’s always someone for whom I sing my song. And as I stand alone I sing for no-one Knowing that someone will one day know.