20 August 2016

I took this shot from my window a couple of evenings ago and was thinking of writing some suitable words but then it struck me that it was an ideal fit for this Dylan Thomas poem.  It is probably his best-known piece and its themes of mortality and the impending death of his father seemed apt for this sunset.  The poem is also a fine example of the villanelle form.

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16 August 2016

06 August 2016

             on finding frost in an avian summer

                             common enough
                   an endless source of amusement
                         i stand in my kitchen
     nursing black coffee and an illicit choc-chip cookie
     do what sparrows do in their wing-whirling microcosm
                           they chatter
                 flit-fly off to nowhere special
                    come back revitalised
            all with a sense of random purpose
                          i give them seed and suet
              they repay me with impromptu acrobatics
                  on a gymnasium of dying flowers
                         revelling in an endless moment

     one could do worse than be a swinger of foxgloves


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22 July 2016

Brixham Railway Station - closed in May 1963


                            we are such stuff …

                                they were good days
                               days of hitch-hiking
                                days of soul surfing
                            looking for nothing much
                      laughing when we found it

                             we’d sit on the plinth of the statue
                                     there by the harbour
                        surrounded by seagulls and holidaymakers
                               the sounds of endless summers

                       i guess we spoke of this and that
                           long rides on starless nights
                                  new friends
                                 old friends
                                   but also
                    the hierarchy of sleeping spots
                                   old houses
                                    cliff tops
                           wooded clearings
  i remember sleeping in a disused railway station
                           full of silent noise
                made by trains going nowhere
                         coming back

                                   but i held my tongue
            (no easy trick when drinking cider from a flagon)
                              listened to their boasts
                    of dossing in  empty hotels
                               ww2 gun emplacements
                                          and a dozen other dens
                                                  then i saw my truth
                                 smiled like a poker-playing hustler
                                laid my card on an imaginary table
                                                  i said
                                     i slept in a metaphor
                             wrapped in invisible steam


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20 June 2016


                            There Comes A Time 

               There comes a time when one must speak of love,
               That moment when the truth is realised,
                When metaphor lies maimed beside the road,
                Outplayed by lips and just one soft caress.
                Of course the world spins on as best it can,
                And makes its way between the potent stars,
                Its journey meaning nothing to a heart
               Tied to an orbit ‘round a mystic smile.
                Enjoy those walks to nowhere (and then back);
               The tapestries of sunsets on the clouds;
               Or simply sit and watch the burning logs
               Admire their echoes in each other's eyes.

               Then comes the time, that sudden whispered choice,
               When love must speak by signs and hold its voice.


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06 June 2016

cotton grass june 2016

26 May 2016

                          postbox  and primroses

                                                             if i were to write you a letter
                                                               this is where i would post it  -
                                                           an unassuming incognito box

                                                           on a late spring day
                                      i would choose to walk the necessary mile
                                         sharing a little time with wild flowers
                                     carpeting the verges of the winding lane
                                         nodding to me as a kindred spirit
                                           take a wet autumn day
                                      i’d drive those same curves
                                      letting the wipers compete
                                              with a slow blues


                                    i would leave the car
                                  clutching the envelope
                               seeing it spotted with rain          
    (a little taste of here making the journey to someplace else)

                     enjoying the final act of setting free the words

                                                times change
                                             seasons change
                                      add snow or scorching sun
                                      the way is much the same

                                        i seldom use a pen
                                     or trouble the mailman
                                          still i write
                               inside my ageing head
                 minutiae of moments gone and yet to be
                                feel the need to share
                                    all that i would say…

                          if i were to write you a letter



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