Wednesday, 18 April 2018

Coming of age

And when mid April’s second wind,
sends the skirts of Summer reeling,
we nearly see, o, we nearly see,
the colour of her knickers teasing,
as in the blush of youth she blossoms,
as in the flush of youth she whispers,
my love, my love, sleep inside of me my love,
until we wake, until we take,
one long, last harvest kiss.

Monday, 16 April 2018

kissing

kissing the sunlight in the air
giving a glow to your lover there
to lay as a moonbeam
in your lover’s dream 
him of her of him
they drown not swim
for nowt they care
for all is there
that they will ever need
as their hearts bleed
into each other
they whisper
there is no other
one for me to be
kissing in the sunlight in the morning air


Sunday, 15 April 2018

I thought

a thought is a such fleeting thing
until it is framed in a poem

a poem is such a tender shoot
until it is incubated in a book

rest your hand upon that book
and let your mind drift

far far away
far closer than closer
    and closer

         until
                 until

Friday, 13 April 2018

the dirty nine steps

walking
that rough black slag-shodden road
  pitch deep on rifleman’s row
that guy fawkes cordite-night in 58
  how were we to know

walking 
that pearl bulb lamp-lighted road
  down to a wooden secret in aeron thomas’s 
that super-moon wide-eyed night in 58
  when we simply broke our promises

walking 
that men-to-work cinder-red path
  to a gutter stalactite culvert
that dared a nine-year old in 58
  go on go on it wouldn’t hurt

walking 
that times-gone-by midden strata
  to a ginger-beer fisted jar
that was a stone-made treasure in 58
  grit brown down deep and far

walking
that milk-white coarse-haired ratted gutter
  where we made five fingered fountains on
that damned lake-wide flowing 58
  as deep as the mountains ire

walking 
that slag-bot topped chapel wall
  in a slip-footed tightroped daring do
that spied the sangfroid vestry 58
  of a sunday bloody sunday schooling you 
  
walking
that march-hare heathered hill
  under a lark-blue sky on a spinneying wind
that tore a child’s genie-dream in 58
  and sent it soaring far out of mind

walking
that impatient wriggling well-worn path
  across the wings-on-heel fields to
that tadpolled spring-fingered pool
 to stock my aquarium well overdue

walking 
that way down sixty time-sped years
  sliding on the smile-bled tears
that cuffed the naughty boy’s glint-eyed joy 
  for boy oh boy never had we fears
or foresaw when a second childhood nears

Monday, 9 April 2018

those bloody bards

and then it popped up
another bloody poem
from those bloody bards
then i went and stepped on it
and messed up all the words
it's time to change the bards
in the bloody bargain basement
it's time to have the inspiration
for another bloody word

the tiers of wales

o that there were a heaven
for surely there
dear
idris davies and r s thomas
would be walking
arm in arm
wrapped in the welsh flag
two rocks
from the mountain tops
borne on the winds
that blew their tears
back into our faces
as their clouds flew bye
these sons of cymru flared

Sunday, 1 April 2018

recoil to know

from all the motorway’s blinking lights
i recoil. 
from all the lorry drivers 
and all the van men on their way to fast work 
i recoil.
from the factory’s smoking stacks, 
and the trains and planes and noise and all
i recoil.
for
i prefer 
to sit with a book of poems,
alone in the shadow of a light’s silence, 
as the sun drags down the world and all, 
i sit chewing on the lemon words,
or alight upon the honey meadows,
and i know 
that this is how life should be.