Sunday, 22 July 2018

music returns to auschwitz and a lone voice sings

music returns to auschwitz 
   and a lone voice sings


such longing, such an aching lamentation.
why do you not scream out, or 
laugh in an inconsolable madness
and release me from the gibbet 
of your anguish?
that i could manage,
that i could cope with.
and, no, i do not want to forget, 
but there is beauty in the purity of the 
voice that impales the pain;
it holds me spellbound.
i weep now for all mankind;
doomed, doomed, as we are, 
doomed to relive a myriad deaths 
and shades of suffering
before the end. 
oh, i bleed down these ochre walls,
as i relinquish into a sea of wailing
all of my sorrow; 
i dread what yesterday will bring 
unto the ‘morrow;
it lacerates my sadness 
to hang empty upon the night air, 
and i wail and wail, but to no avail;
for alas is never enough;
is it?

Saturday, 21 July 2018



she is only twelve, and yet she is already
a seed bursting in a summer pod. 
sometimes she may be as bitter as laburnum; 
but taste it you will. 
she is fired in the yellow of tomorrow’s dawn;
she has her chin upon the clouds;
she is going there, stop her if you dare!
cage the spirit and the bats will beat the bars; 
can you claw the air back into a cage? no! 
so let her breathe, say goodbye then she might tarry; 
spinning at the other end of the skipping rope, 
head in the stars that orbit her sun. then whoosh! 
so be gone my lovely, wave back now and then?

Friday, 20 July 2018



damp is the crooked valley of that smile 
the dark musk road to procreation 
believe unto belly into belly
for mile upon mile of the time
when the footfall along that road
set the future from here to year
love is such a strange desire
don’t you think
under the mountain of that smile
in the sighs between the thighs 
while all the time
it was and will be 
for it is preordained
and so it was 
       and so we did
              and so it must be

Wednesday, 18 July 2018



he is custard-suited, sun-seated, on
the promenade-smiled bench. 
these newspaper days. when he can say
that he has seen it all before and lived 
to tell the tale. to tell it to the breeze
that brings the tears that dry as
quick as they are cheek-borne.
how this late summer is to be savoured,
just beyond his flaky fingers
that lean upon his silver cane,
to tip the day bonsoir, au revoir;
tomorrow will be straw-boated
once again,
and the sun will shine.

Tuesday, 17 July 2018

my mother used to say that

the things mums say are
forever tattooed in your mind
they never fade with the years
tears make them shine brighter
they will die with you
they are the pillow of
your last goodbye

the doldrums of dawn

the doldrums of dawn

the bees are sawing the morning,
as the flowers flute come on;
  then the sparrows tutt and tit tit it,
  but the great-tits have flit and gorn;
and the cat? well she’s stalking the breeze,
that clacks the crows to clack back, "black-cat"

until ...

the wood pigeon (l’m a big bird don’t you know)
soothes "who wants a second cup of tea?"
"me! and how perfectly purrfect" mews the cat,
and so - hi oh - another morning moment,
goes yawning down the fair dews of dawn.

Sunday, 15 July 2018

laverbread (bara lawr)

laverbread (bara lawr)

give me your ebony tears,
my darling sea;
spill your black maidenhair,
over sea’s rock and chair;
this laver bred, 
from the menu of the sea,
so deliciously a minded.

long in picking,
under the chiding sun;
long in washing, 
until the moonshine;
long boiled down
in fond anticipation.

in oatmeal faery-dusted,
fried with bacon and cockles;
this breakfast from gower
fit for the king of neptune.

wide eyed,
welsh-hat black,
black as the coal in our veins,
the steelworks at night.

    it is,
  in our way,
eaten by us welsh,
swansea market stalled,
a memory in taste
of the sea, 
 for you,