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;

and

hover-flies are bickering 

to and fro, to and fro;

and 

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.

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

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 

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.

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

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

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

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

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.