suddenly

 suddenly 

the realisation that poetry is of the moment

the past is old fashion

the future no longer certain

move me now from here to where you are

looking back at me

tingle me

what else is there or could there ever be

a feast

 a feast

this poem               is

like a head on a plate 

(you name the critter)

not eating the eyes with your eyes

pulling at the brains of the poet

catching the virus

deep within the grey matter

your eyes deaden around the flame

deep inside revulsion is savoured 

of course 

good ~ grief

 good ~ grief

the wait of grief

the long weight of

the gate’s slowly rusting resistance 

remembering the green paint

on our hands on the floor

i am now

a garden fire smokes me out

 a garden fire smokes me out

somewhere ~ over there ~ in the trees

a garden fire lisps of autumn

azure in its growing falling

a leaf falls

  a petal drops

my steps slow down to a standing look

just look ~ look 

all’s right with the world 

in one deep breath more memories

than tears can prick at

it’s all gone bleary

the falling is so terribly slow

tumbling in the sunshine they leave

every bird that brought spring’s summer

over is such a sad word

it’s over

i new

 i new

i knew it was new

now i know it is not

what was new is now not what it was

not that the writing knew

for it had no common tense

i wrote therefore i am

it was wrote therefore it is

and i was what i wrote by rote

is the antidote to life’s end

is the beginning of another poem

ahem

the mystery of forever amber

 the mystery of forever amber

you see her on screen

the woman with the camera dangling at a flung angle

or with a walky talkie talking 

sitting at a roadside cafe in paris reading a book

or browsing deep inside a timeless bookshop silent

or staring lost in a painting on the emabakment

maybe waiting by the illuminated sign of an impressionist

one leg bent inviting her companion to arrive with

a streetlight warming to the night’s expectation 

then there is the poster

she is both outside and inside

thinking thoughts of thoughts thinking

you are confused by the attraction

of the gulf between you 

perhaps not ~ perhaps yes

the mystery of forever amber

in the sadness of a selfie

go on ask her

just a dusting

 just a dusting 

it was a dusting of snow

you know the way it settles on the slate

late into the day the roofs are edged with sorrow

closer to a dream that melted long ago

a few hardy souls  slips into my mind

as footsteps mist their way you know

how thoughts settle slowly into

the distance that melts frozen

flakes of a memory settle when

sward is another word that is cribbed

from a nativity tea-clothed with a shepherd’s cord

that leads the snow-sheep down the centre of the road

the shops are open

aye

the busses are running

just a dusting

just a dusting

surely not

                              surely not

                    surely             this is it

                an icon for our times

the fire service is using sewage to put out fires 

                            because 

             there’s not enough water 

it doesn’t count

 it doesn’t count

this reliquary

rattling with the hail of time’s mistrust

of seasons out of phase

with the tumbler switches of reason

as fickle as our indecisions

tomorrow the hail will stop and

we’ll hail a cab back to the upper meadows

and count the bones of drought

the icons of a godliness revoked

deconstructing a construct

will you be the one to pull the last brick

from civilisation’s edifice?

over every shoulder there are guns

pointing their hair-triggers

now! now!

run!!

gasometer

 gasometer

saw one explode once

from the top of kilvey hill

i saw it down in the town

saw the flare before the sound got to me

a man died they said

that also got to me

down there 

they have gone now of course

tesco is built there

two for the price of one

it’s what life is all about

a poem for ian & isla

 a poem for ian & isla 

the band struck up time

and time looped as a band

the necklace of youth

has coloured my cheeks

we struck up a conversation

that lasted for weeks and for weeks

young isla so young 

so innocent of tongue

now is the time to take plenty time

for now i am yours and your a mine

grandpa

a poem for claire’s morning

 a poem for claire’s morning

annealed in the sea from the forge of dawn

quenched in the turning of waves returning

along the groynes the green weed is lolling lolling

up on the sea wall the gulls are calling calling

claire is there in the cool morning air

dogs off the leash in their world not a care

kiddo

 kiddo

leaning against a wall

a hooded lad becomes a caricature 

of waiting around

the epitome of youth’s rush to be coolio

the personification of anonymity 

wot   huh  right

yeah right

yeah

if you say so