Dreaming Of Climbing

Across the rope-bridge to the temple
Fragments of papyrus flutter into the gorge
At floor level the twenty first century poets
Gather to capture the words, as though
They were the petals of snowdrops

Fear is at a distance
Fear is always at a distance
So beats my bumpy heart
So well the beads of sweat
Upon my furrowed brow

One dance step after the next
In and out of the skipping rope
To the music of whistle and drum
The twenty first century poets words are gathered
As though they were the echoes of the sunspots

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Music Of Life

The car is heavy with frost
Inside it is cold, a cold
That blows into the ear drums
And keeps at bay
The Bach Viennese Waltz

O to be in the ballroom
To glide, demure
Clothed in exquisite attire
With you at ease on my arm

It will take a while
For the window to clear
For visibility to become visible
I am cocooned
In my executive sedan

O to be in the winter palace
To sip the sweet Martini
Toasting friends, and acquaintances
With you, dressed in silk, by my side

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Sat, At The Breakfast Table

Look up the rolling hill
Towards the waning moon
Over the frosted fields
Through the crinkled hedgerow

White and silver and golden
Cast in limelight and shadow
The coup de gras though lies further
For beauty forages in the muddled woodland

From this quite significant distance
She resembles a patchwork quilt
Awash with autumnal and spring pastels
A rich mixed umber of natures equations

It all looks still, way out there
It is quiet, the day only broken
By the squawks in the very close foreground
Of the excitable, and wildly coloured, gaming birds

In these few moments of writing
The white morning moon
Falls down behind the tree line
All that is left is a sky of light missionary blue

Later, during breakfast, as if in a choreographed finale
Slow motion flocks of birds rise from the hidden valleys
They take a tour of the open air before they elegantly disappear again
Was it a mirage, the likes of which I had not witnessed ever before

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At The Start Of Day

Frost on trees, every limb
Every tentacle, every branch
Every non-linear metre

The artist may paint & pastel
Or the photographer might fix his still
But I will write; for the feel
Of the six o clock mornings
Is almost too dark to see

Only the sounds
Of the partridge and pheasants
Echo, to bring on, to serenade
The entrance of the day

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At The End Of Night

Daylight creeps into the valley, in search of the crowing voices
Beat of the pheasants wings brings their vibrations physicality to glass
It is all that stands between human warmth and the strut of winged courtship

The clocks tick tock, yet the alarm stays silent
Once again I have woken before the time to wake
To peer across the flat frosted grass, to look out, over the stream to the woodlands

Banks of trees that rise in an instant in a vast array of greens
And golds, browns, yellows and reds; and then, the wisp of eastern silver birch
For all that are chosen to stand erect, in search of the photosynthetic energy of light

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