never read my poems slow

never read my poems slow

never read my poems slow

for when is a sluice gate half open

that fullness replete upon the banks

does ever stem

oh that a brogue voice

of a cultured man of a county

could ramble slowly the taste

of every word that tore

from my dreams of what was

when it really meant something

now just a feeling on the library shelf

of a mind in a late-life refractory period

that haste against time would not

avalanche the emotive skitter scree

of thorny stones

the sharp flint of tears

to slither up the resultant pile

would creat another pile

but would still not find a nugget

for is it not the rattle that attracts 

or the beans inside

does not the baby smile at the movement

and if not stationary what is it

if must i might try

and amble along the lanes of familiar

hedgerows and meadows that

you would recognise 

on the way to

a destination that will surprise

without the thorns of crashing through the bramble 

yet still the thoughts flow in a torrent

from the underground river on high

to crash on rainbow rocks and

speed off down stream

slippery the rocks that you run

careering headlong 

until a lake as slow as a palace

circles a reflection

the spittle of the flared herd

drifting across

to where the sun settles