forever’s eve

 forever’s eve

… then in careful words 

a thought is laid down for ever 

and in my mind never no more isn’t 

so

wrap me in your autumn words 

and i will spring you a surprise 

just like i did in the olden days 

My poetry biography

 

 i wait

i don’t write

i wait until

it dictates

then i write 

until 

a mother and son selfie

a mother and son selfie

suddenly

there is beauty beyond 

being beautiful 

together is teetering

upon time’s tearing

of their tethering apart

which is the beautiful part

of today forging tomorrow’s

broken heart  

martyn is in the morgue

 martyn is in the morgue

it’s a long time from high tide to low tide 

a long time to lay in that morgue 

your blue fingers no gloves to hide

or your cadaverine pallor prorogue

how can you lie there under death’s sentry 

when there is gossip enough on the shore

the place where you left your clothes is now empty

and the sand carries your footprints no more

the sea is cold i tell you absentmindedly 

and the waves are higher than before

with your cravat twisted untidily for

the wind is rattling death’s door 

take one look from your last lonely pew

before the light extinguishes the view

there’s a storm brewing i tell you

and there’s a tear in my eye ~ oh duw

how can we cope with this pain

when your smile is nowhere to be found

except wait until time warms the sea again

and smiles once more abound

it’s a cold sea today

       we all agree

it’s bloody freezing

and we are absolutely numb

a gipsy calls

 1955 ~ a gipsy calls

like autumn

she came to the door

cross-my-palm-with-silver

(my mother reiterated to me)

as she brought in the fist

of wooden pegs

and her quizzical look

(reiterating her fortune told)

i glimpsed the gold earring rings

the dark curled locks spilling

either side of a bronzed face

the gold red bandana scarf

and a strange accent retreating

with the jangle of her bracelets

into next time

i never did find the sparkle

that was missing from her eyes

or understand the dread that followed her

out of the village

the strip fields

 the strip fields

tattered ribbons of history 

bow tied by the sun

crops of memories

surreptitious fists of peas 

down all the ways of a child’s flowering

how the path wiggles it’s known way

called back home by the church tower

crops of the spirit 

crops of the land

the sustenance of a shared walk

taken home to your armchair 

to snooze down all the days

of a rhossili sundowner