Friday, 23 October 2020

they dug this ‘ole

 and why did the wire deviate

or the water pipe levitate

or the gas main bend this way

under my tarmac walk the other day

did the world above ground say

please bend the pipes this way

or did the earth quake and make

all above ground hesitate

and shake hands and walk this away

Wednesday, 21 October 2020

late after noon

 late after noon


and now a fading afternoon

darkens into raining heavier see

the shrubs the trees in darkling swoon

october’s leaves dead upon a midden’s final flee

mellowing the shine of a chilled harvest moon

and by pattering increasing will for ever be

that very last leaf said to be falling soon

and soon from frosts in bedding flee

although it seems so far away that bloom

that ice upon the windows frosted tree

as now in this afternoon’s fetid room

we sleep the sleep of a desiccated bee

window halted in a last mid buzz boom

settling as thoughts that once were free

to zoom no more into autumn’s gloom 

for all in all it is as it should be 

late in this long year’s tiered cemetery 

a sun blue morning after snow

 a sun blue morning after snow


a sun blue morning after snow

hushed in this painting the oils 

are as aged as time itself as

aged as every gaze that alights

bird-like upon life’s fence held

forever is stilled here now before

a held breath mists the morning 

to move forward and it’s lost


touch it fingerly

finger it touchingly

ribble the smooth

smell the oils 

long-dried

fresh as a new fall of snow


just lines?

just lines

golden syrup and lemon juice

the smiles the grimaces

the pallor the puce 

they are all aces           aces

all the writers’ readers

reading through the night’s

long song book of verse


those are the words

are they not

Monday, 19 October 2020

Welsh lockdown

 Welsh lockdown

sixteen days and what do you get

the R number is lower but we are deeper in debt

lord don’t you call me because i can’t go

i owe it my soul to keep two metres or more

eastwards falls the tears

 eastwards falls the tears


on the soft bed of the chinese poets

feather light the quill of my repose

i should write this comfort into words

of comfort but i am too comfortable 

to play with the sunbeams or drink at

their iced tears their disparate loves

separated and desperate and inconsolable 

no imagination could replicate the years

their winsome days where i float

tasting all the spirits of the mist

the hermitage of time gone cold

Sunday, 18 October 2020

 take this out of me

for i gift it to thee now


wary various weighs