satiated

 satiated

how nice it is when whatever 

satiates has done its job

when outside of relaxation 

looks down and says rest there

my child for muscles have laid

their said knots and mind has

slipped the noose of toil

soil oil broil hydrofoil

adrift upon a sea of ease 

and whatever has the job just done

has slipped the sluice lock torrent’s in

flow across the washed fields of yore’s

marshland under skies of marsh clouds

over cataracts of falling mist as if i would

never reach the floor but hang here

until satiated be forever satisfied 

they left flowers

 they left flowers

they left flowers

found flowers for us

memories for them

we feel their trespass

in the wails of the wind

that are brandished here

skin flints of the mind

there in one cold stare

written on a card 

read by the writers of other cards 

that they left here with their

found words for us

coloured candles 

flickering amongst the flowers

they left for the drying of their tears

and for our desiccation 

this long autumn

there’s something about a swing bridge

there’s something about a swing bridge

there’s something about a swing bridge

with a railway track lined over it

double lines that trap bicycle wheels

that topple into a waiting for the ships

standing or leaning on the galvanised iron

grey as voyages’ cargoes knighted by

the tall cranes that genuflect next

comes the cold tapping on time

to swing slowly slowly closed

as the day proceeds to unload

mrs opposite

 mrs opposite 

  mrs opposite

my interlocutor 

everything was said she backwards 

even my surreptitious question

looked apposite to

  mrs opposite

runes

 runes

and now the ruins have arrived

in lately eyes upon these times 

torrid being the pandemic word

that best describe these times

we used to come as kids to the ruins

but there is no hope now for play it seems

for the memes in the fountain are rueing 

over what best describe these times

for it is a bombers moon that climbs

silver under the boys flight feet

for no longer can we meet

to blast these blasted times 

for even the ruins are ruined

where they were once pastimes

now they are in rusting derelict

mistrusting over time’s deep mines

sea swim

 sea swim

followed by a

snooze

roaring log fire

milky coffee

home made 

apple and sultana cake

with a slow pastry fork

a smoothly woozy cat

on this fading afternoon

of flickering thoughts

aye bye and bye

and bye 

and bye

you can trust rust

 you can trust rust

rust is, well, sort of ...

menstrual;

in a, sort of, flow of time 

sort of way.

a cleaning down 

of yesterday’s hopes

in readiness.

ah! rediness 

always make a joke about it,

the blushing at ready time.

but seriously, 

bits fall off and pile up and

over time the thing is nothing,

no more the thing we thought.

you cannot polish rust,

you have to bang it off

with the brutalism of decision.

start to build a wall around it,

lay the foundation bolts shining 

build the phoenix’s perch.