two vignettes of the sea
the slow burn of sun on mud flat’s
golden ooze in minds slow repose
of a sunset long in day and distance that
lay down in thoughts of bed and snooze
the bight of a squall on the briny
blue black is the bruise of dawn
tooth white the snarl as waves ask me
whether it is worth going out at all
sculpture in the city
what is needed is sculpture writ with words
brutalism writ brutal
curves writ caress
concrete writ not immortal
all is but unrest
wind the streets around you
curl the populace
smile away the filigree
laugh at the mess
leave a word for me
and i will do the rest
& recuperation
that is the acid test
may be
darling buds of may
slugs on a wet day
the dog said i’ve an idea
and ran away
and ran and ran away
and away
we went
on looking at wendy’s dress
weaving
in and out of my timeline
dressed to occasion
a thought comes and goes
replaced by another address
for the location of the circumlocution
that flows from an undressed mind
lost in the thought of why
and why not answers
in the pink
like in it
in i
and all that stuff
upon reading john’s list
even after ever after
the list of things that move me
that warm the cockles of my heart
even after all these things are listed
to contain the constraints on my heart
there is a missed beat
that dances across this page
and leaves not one footprint
but a fraught
nought my king
this neuralgia of the nation
this agony of times
the proletariat protest my lord
the clandestine complexion of your crimes
apply your uniforms as a neural block
apply to their hands and brains
as they genuflect their bended backs
as you reach for their votes on reigns
no sire the past is past my Lord
no future reigns supreme
it’s over now bar the counting out
it’s over now your regal dream
the worms have turned
the worms that once were bait
have told you to sling your hook
for you have left it far too late
tapestries are threadbare now
tapestries that dwell long on heraldry
portraits fall from palace walls
portrait’s of grandeur’s bigotry
return your medals to the box
return them to the proletariat
the end is nigh exclaim vox populi
the end is nigh and that is that
and now the gas mantle has gone out
i can remember the coffin
on trestles in the front room
grandpa was cold but relaxed
as we all were
then we went out to play
cowboys and indians
killing each other
i had a winchester repeating rifle
when i was small
grandpa used to remind me which side was ours
gently
at the wedding of spring and summer
‘tis indeed a precocious season spring
that brings the bride’s maid’s train
for summer he is waiting at the altar
and the bride is readily veiled again
conspiratorially the breeze stirs in the blossom
and light in the coined confetti falls her name
summer love oh summer love
get over winter’s unrequited shame
kiss me now once more before we pledge
that when autumn’s drizzles falls
upon the last flute of summer’s champagne
we’ll cuddle all the winter through
whispering oh i do i do love you
until the bluebell’s melancholy call
drapes the valley’s sedge long veil
and with a sun dew mist arising
warmly upwells our anniversary air
around the maypole faeries dancing
lifting love-locked eyes up there
and look and look in the blue skies
we are there again a love light pair
voices
so many voices
dressed up in words
so many tales
so many veils
the you in your ‘me’
is told to me in mine
exchange is no robbery
commensurate is the rhyme
ten thousand different characters
ten thousand different voices
say
give me yours and i’ll give you mine
that sting thing feeling
summer ate spring
a duckling ate midges
a magpie ate the duckling
stolen
there in black and white
is the plight of romance
at the edges it’s all midges
there’s the bloody sting
raw war raw war
it’s the eternal oxymoron
to stop war you have to go to war
well you started it
no i didn’t
i’m dead sure you did
anyway god is on both our sides
so we can’t lose in the end
take this bullet to heaven with you and ask
it’s over there camouflaged in mud blood mud
rs thomas
from across the border of his grave
his arrows pierce my heart
from across the fields of his thoughts
he opens up to me through a creaky gate
brushed with stars he said that tree was
as i simply sit under it in wonder
and wander longingly through his words
mister wonderful such an empty sobriquet
i think he would entreat
for it is by the pulling of the weave
that the tapestry yields its golden threads
as the saga unfolds from his limited time
it starts to rain and the wind picks us up
again his grave overflows as it will
in perpetuity is a comfortable phrase