Guillemots

Swoop

Dive

Soar

Glide

Cliff tops

Grey skies

Raindrops

Sea spray

Listen; hear sigh

The mournful cry 

Of the guillemots

Listen

Silent in 

Your own self

To call the guillemots

Another night of theatre 

Another night

Of crowd control

Take me to your sky life

Pass on by

Your broken heart

Take me to your soul

Listen to the call, listen

And be silent 

In your own self

Hear the call

The mournful cry

From the grey skies

& the cliff tops

The call

From the raindrops

& the sea spray

The squawk

& sigh 

The beautiful cry

Of the guillemots

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All made up and nowhere to go

To sit without suggestion

As protected by the dream

Black spots of resurrection

Connected altogether too clean

To sit as an observed dimension

The dementia of a scheme

White dots of self infection

Reflect the step to true demean

To sit await collection

For inspection by the team

Blood clots of doubt detection

Deflect the specs it seems

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Observations At An Exhibition

Another blood test Friday

Pink socks, painted toenails

Soft brown sandals

Society magazines; real people

We all get tired don’t we

Wonder if all’s worthwhile

Then the soft breeze

Catches the hair on my arm

A friend points me

Towards some new direction

For a moment, in my mind

All is replenished

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Fantasies: Movement 4

The pamphlet title: The A Road Numbers

Twixt home and work 

Where much of this stuff is composed

Word-wrecks that wrack around my head 

Before being committed to paper

Per se

Up and down the Wolds

Round the long and soft turned corners

Early in the morning

As the worlds day begins again

The procession is ever so

Truly, unruly, she’s duly being processed

Around half way

Just a shade of moments further

A breakfast stop

Bacon & eggs; some days the full monty

Occasionally a yoghurt drink

With fresh mango from the Caribbean

The tea time radio DJ

In casual conversation

Said he had not heard the word experiential

Not before yesterday; neither had his friend

I found that odd

That’s all this is. I hope you follow

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Magic Numbers

Number 8 has just stubbed out her fag

I’m number 22

Sat beside

A season ticket holder

Mr. Number 23

I would have got here earlier

But the doctor’s receptionist said

To wait for the phone rush to die down

Anyhow

8 and 9 are done now

Both looked a bit dodgy to me

Then, I’m no doctor, and anyway

I guess you wouldn’t come here

To pick your team for the Olympics

A bit dodgy; not a bad diagnosis

Then, my daughter is a doctor

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