tutt tutt

tutt tutt

the light singing

  in the shed 

    on the mud

of gone tides 

   flowing in words

in deed 

     this 

           is where they were born 

in the heart of night’s loneliness

when the flagons should be abed

and the smoke swirling in dreams

  and not the this endeavour 

Laugharne you have the last laugh

  shed of opinions

    roosting on the hill

life’s a pitch

life’s a pitch

he’s the man who draws the white lines

on the pitches every Friday

ready for the games on Saturday

always straight

always the right length

with the leftover lime tipped

and running down the red brick wall

then he goes away

and comes back the next Friday

all through the winter

taxi days

taxi days

days‬

‪and the way days and days‬

‪change our ways‬

‪if i pay my fare in words‬

‪are you for hire‬

‪and will you drop me there‬

‪at life’s desire‬  where

the dark downs like a cat

eye-lidden the fire begs

to be lit

but light can be denied for 

a time   for a short while

there is a music wormhole in the veil

and then we’re through and it closes

why are the tear ducts cemented

the tears build up to a pulp of roses 

at three hundred pounds per square inch 

thoughts unable to whip stop the stallion

galloping away until we are left 

with the flies and empty reigns 

in hands that smack of despair 

the needle has sewn the pastiche quilt

it’s time to sleep

tides

tides

poetry is like the sea

it comes and it goes

it come and it goes

yet we come to see

the giant wave crash

and drain away away 

leaving the sun sparkling 

in a pool 

a fish waiting

caught but still free

free but still caught

the thought that

came that went

went and came back

caught but not caught

free but not free

what words are these 

who made them bite this way 

to lick away sorry sorry

yet bite again and again

until the moon turns red 

the earth turns blue

and tears douse the fire

the fire dries the tears

again and   again 

and again   again

the end of the road

the end of the road

the pub at the end of the road,

the last one before the hill

where the light from the one stride,

between bar and bog, shone over the 

nothing fields of slag and ruin.

                             wintered tight 

the warm hubbub of knocked dominos 

chalked dart scores, both as pained

in battle as any army that lent their names

to the terraces that housed these night men

manacled to their lot, which was not a lot.

when the ice clanged and the snow blew

every one of them home to wife-beds turned 

to a wall of reticence;

beer snored the deep lands of the day

and morning seemed so far away.

The Rising Sun, Pentrechwyth (circa 1966)

midden earth

midden earth

will we be found in the permafrost

after the melt waters have done their job

will we be a 46,000 year-old preservation

in some distant uplands bog

and will some civilisation say

see how they burnt away the peat

and the oil of their debilitation

down that one way street

so embalm the best bits of our shit

in the poetic medium midden

and take your takeoff seat

My Little Brother

My Little Brother

my first typewriter was called a

‘Little Brother’and I was ten

much better than a pen

I thought 
              that the poems looked real

typecast and not typecast

and putting the words down

clattered as if they mattered

to me they emptied my pockets 

to make room for more of the words

that were simmering on the back burner 

of the rain on the hobs of childhood

wait - stop

don’t smudge the ink with tears you silly old man