oh yes sorry you said
and yet i feel sorry
that disbelief distorts
both the giver and taker
well i’m sorry too
intones the sun breaking
through a broken cloud
as a rain drop
proves the storm
so a tear
proves the word
the point is not to score points
the point is to stem the flow
from your bloody unremarkable
sorry
the beach boys
the beach boys
a time when lyrics took second place
to the sound of a time that
was laying down its lyrics of
time passing when it was not
you don’t believe me
then why am i so bleary eyed
sing me your song
and i’ll sing you mine
all the way back home
oh joe joe
old joe
he polished the floor
with a bumper
for he was leaded
from too much exposure
in his molten past
the floor of the lab shone
with his reminiscences
oh boy he’d been a boy alright
in his time and all that
was in the past
leaded now and gasping
rasping at his fate
but it sold
the lead and the gold
on many sarcophagi halted
for it was a bumper crop
of lives expended
it never ended
and i predict it never will
but what a shine they put on it
farther
i named the stream father
for he floated my first leaf boat
built my potential with its journey
over the falls we went
singing foam
whistling up a rainbow
days that float in my mind’s eye
as we walked home
for seventy years
the boat’s caulking has held
replying to a poet’s bleat
spare me the despair
i have enough of my own
how full can emptiness be
tell me ~ go on tell me
what works eventually
when all has been tried and failed
when the dam on time’s river is failing
for what word can plug despair
before a deluge of death-bed poems
fills the piss pot
i’m listening now
alright
come on
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
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
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
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
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
