september window
golden
in the depth of trees
a wet autumn morning
squalls away
torrential
seeps out
of the thesaurus
wind turns the pages
deep it
depends on your viewpoint
my cat peers
the yard is a river again
i sink
deeper into my arm chair
my thoughts travel
the day unravels
my intentions are autumnal
has summer finally gone
no one dares to ask
the
the wind is moaning
my mind is moaning
the rain is moaning
the morning is moaning
the mooring is moaning
the sea is just …
unjust
the there you are
as i recall
there was a pat of butter
thick and round
and wrapped in grease proof paper
labelled welsh salt butter
and on the way back from howell’s shop
with a crusty loaf
you could suck the salt from the butter
through the paper
like a vampire shunning daylight
surreptitious entered my lexicon
and disbelief at the toothmarks
on the loaf
on mum’s tablecloth
penican
they took a quill
from the bird of imagination
and it couldn’t fly
they put it write
but their words fell dud
too heavy too heavy
incandescent
the quills flew back to paradise
now there’s a tail for you
K house
a person is nothing
but a predetermined chaos of neurones
all fed with input from a shared illusion
frying our minds at gasp mark three
there is epigenetics and proteomics of course
and childhood comics
in which we are all the hero
procreation was before my time
if you follow me
1960s
dark evenings
doleful evenings
cold evenings
the beatles
chrome chip shops
wallflower dances
dark evenings
doleful evenings
cold evenings
the old songs
yeah yeah yeah
forever and ever
there’s a kinda
slowing of time
friends
a reply to a tweet from ian
the house where i lived as a child
keeps my secrets safe yet still
now i am grown and walk abroad
i often return against my will
when hard becomes my lonely road
i see me kneeling meek and mild
saying my prayers at the top of the stairs
as the clock strikes goodnight son
