Monday, 30 April 2018

in the garden

in the jostle of white Islands
across a look at ‘em sky,
the neon birdsong flickers,
and dancing on my eyelids, 
it is flowing like the breeze.

the pear blossom is counting bees,
the plum is having a snooze,
soon the apple buds will follow,
in a mo, in a mo;
hover-flies are bickering 
to and fro, to and fro;
the sunshine is telling me,
take a snooze, do take a snooze.

upon my pinking skin,
greenflies fall with their dew,
then climb back up the trees;
for when the silver birch is shining,
and pale with baby tongues,
each one is singing a lullaby,
to wrap me down in ease.

now the fern is blowing party horns,
higher, and higher;
wake up, wake up,
look! spring is taking wing;
and as orchestra plays
i join the choir so to sing,
   and sing,
        and sing.

Saturday, 28 April 2018

late spring

there are more flowers on the pear tree
than there are bees upon the wing
and yet they still abound in the blossom
betwix the blue sky and the sea
the plum tree is coy in goosebumps
for her petal coat’s around her knees
and the blue bell fountains in the corner
ring of spring and ring out loud

the cherry blossoms lick the breeze
and the bees are flouncing
bouncing and announcing 
that the forsythia is leaving 
on the last flowering-currant train
and just look at the camellia 
well i ask you 
                        i ask you
is that soil brown upon her knees
and then there is the sea breeze 
that will turn the paths cherry pink
oh spring is such a pleasant time
don’t you think 
                          oh don’t you think

it has the allure 
of high summer mature
and boy oh boy
will we see some busy bees
before these days are over
oh please
      yes please
            yes please

Wednesday, 25 April 2018

cherry blossom

the cherry blossom bursts rejoicing
spilling the pent-up winter moons and
flying from spring’s fountain maunders 
in icing pink and down upon the wind 
and along the wide blue sky it lays
a welcome for long languid summer days 
and when the opalescent dew has melted
the icing pink upon the morning rays 
and when the pollen bees start buzzing
we know that all is well with the world
for summer days are here again 

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 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


Friday, 13 April 2018

the dirty nine steps

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

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

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

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

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

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 
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

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

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
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.
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.