Nature And Man Not Quite At One

Light falls onto the crop field
Only a strip for now
Gifts preferential growth conditions
To the favoured corner

It is what we do is it not
To make favourites
Of those already blessed with the best
Of nutritive environments

The solitary gull glides and swoops
A scavenger to all intents and purposes
To be frowned upon at the seaside
When all he asks for is vanilla ice cream

The gull though will die a less viscous death
Than the glorious flamboyant partridge
Who for now struts his stuff without demure

But his vainglorious neck will soon be limp
Slung as game, over the gamekeepers shoulder
Or hung, as a trophy, by the gun toting sportsman

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Cosmologist (Big Bang)

Under a clear star-lit sky
I know there will be frost in the morning
I know that I love to breathe and touch
This cold nothingness that consumes me

Such certainty, of undeniable truths
Perhaps it is Jung's universal consciousness
But at this moment it is my time, my turn
My chance to engage the chastity of clarity

Woman is the sole bearer of the child
Such spectacular growth from ejaculated sperm
Raised from the bare earth, ravaged yet fearless
Captured, caught on, on a clear night such as this

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Farmhouse B&B

Darkness is here
Electric light also
A warm bath
Energises the flow
Of the bloodstream
No fear of faint
Though also
No emergency-cord
Then, a silent telephone call
But who would stalk me

Tick and tock
Hot water through
Air trapped radiators
Sounds of the night
In the country
Upstairs, or next door
The inescapable
Joy of youth
Singing, at one
In their shower

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Skin Tight & Passionate

You might name this
A cotton wool sky
Except
That it is as if
Saturns rings of fire
Burn across the western horizon

You might sing along
To Laurie Anderson's Little fluffy clouds
Except
That it is as if
Knives have sliced the canvas
Revealing sky-blue phosphorescence jeans

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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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