Tuesday, May 22, 2012


early evening star
Venus - a narrow crescent
approaching the sun

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

A spring walk (May 10)

Spring is in full swing
pushed higher by downpours.
Bluebells, cowslips, campion
colour the green, splash over the lines -
new life, loud birdcalls, running hares.

Memorial benches punctuate the walk
and, tucked behind a tree,
protected by clear-film,
is a card from a widower to his love.

Geoff Hamilton’s drought garden
is overgrown,
yet bursts of pink and orange, deep red and gold flowers
tempt the eye
and the parchment-bark
of Himalayan silver birch glows pale. 

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Nonsense and rain

Written on May 1st - I think we may be near the forty days without one entirely dry by now. Possibly?

Forty days

On my head is the hat of gloom,
she intoned.
No one gave me the hat of carefree jollity, alas.

The old man’s snoring in the rain
while the ducks are singing in tune tonight.

How many more days before the forty total’s up?
Hey, Swithun? 
I thought it was in July that you objected
when they moved your bones indoors.

Though Doctor Foster’s refusal to return
was to Gloucester
not Winchester
Will they need another diver 
to keep the foundations flood-free now?

I counted – twenty-nine so far
Unless I am mistaken.

Tuesday, May 01, 2012

A strange sonnet of sorts

Written to use prompts : 
Waterlogged-It's always fish on Friday-Hullabaloo-Lime-green pencil-Overflowing dustbin-Orange
- the sense is not focused.

Messy morass

Although the fields were waterlogged we tried
to make our way across the soggy wastes
which stretched ahead according to our tastes.
It’s always fish on Friday, batter-fried,

she mouthed, unheard amid the hullabaloo
waving her lime green pencil like a wand
conducting this unruly lawless band
of ne’er-do-wells whose dads are on the brew.

Like them these kids could very soon land in
that no man’s land of aimless thoughtless souls
the feckless, oft-blamed, idle scrounging crew
with other dust and dross, and life’s own goals
the orange jump-suit clad, despised and blue
who shovel shit, which overflows life’s bin.

A metrical hiccup/possibly permitted variation, I tell myself, in line 5.

A cat-shaped hole

We don’t need to close the door to keep the cats out
or feed them as we make our morning tea.
We won’t have to stop them leaping on the table,
Or on friends who really don’t like cats a lot.

No more jokes about cats with rolling pins
waiting at the door when we get home late –
no more silliness about doing the cleaning,
spoken to a cat with a mob cap and apron.

No making sure they're always fed and watered
No need to tell the neighbours we’re away.

The sparrows and the blackbirds’ll be safer
Though it’s been a while since any danger lurked.

The blankets are all washed and stored – or binned,
the dishes will turn into plant pot saucers
and we’ll give spare tins of food away.

Sure, life will be easier and simpler
But these creatures leave a biggish cat-shaped hole.