She Wrote A Poem

Lorry ate of sulphurous dust
Ache to see her yawning
In the states the wait is on
They hear borealis fawning

It's light, it's dark
It's skies with silver linings
It's dark, it's light
It's skies with phosphorescent finings

Lorry ate of cumulus musk
Fake to see her calling
In the freight the date is on
They hear the voters polling

It's time, it's place
It's flights with hidden findings
It's place, it's time
It's flights with viva volcanic bindings

Kindle link here

Room 21

Past the dreams of night
Past the call of morning
Stand in time to cast
Thoughts without warning

Entertain cathedrals
Witness solitude
As the flight of eagles
So the swings of mood

She screamed all night
Forget the role of stalling
Damned in time her past
Her doubts are a roaming

Stand then to one side
Aloof, refrained, defer
As the flight of reason
So rise defects of brood

Kindle link here

Short Story

The pen and ink sketch was drawn on the day of Princess Diana's funeral. It is of a small jetty, or pier, set out towards a still, almost settled lake.

Stand, step, edge a little further

Step, stand, out into the mist

Stand, step, alone at last

Wait, sit, take out a canvas

Or a notepad, and a pencil

Sit and wait, wait for the moment

When the church bells chime

When heavens seventh wave

Splashes onto the buttress

Land, island, bordered by ocean

Island, land, your one country

Land, island, alive at the last

Kindle link here

A Gathered Ramble

Derbyshire dale
Dale, vale, tales
Of stone and ditch and vetch

As I approach the ledge
I know that vertigo
Will kick in

Kick in, kick on
See it for what it is
No more than
Sharp and glossy stubble

Fear of the day
Long cut field paths
Water falls
Water pools

Hockney it was, I think
Who talked of big skies
Outside the cities bounds

Good times, bad times
Aspire to treat them equal
Feel refreshed, be my friend

available for kindle here

Canvas

There is always noise
Even here, miles off the beaten track
I can hear the drone of the highway
Somewhere over the hill

The stubble is sharp, and glossy
Soil redder than brown
A five-bar gate, half off the hinge
Dykes dry, also somewhat overgrown

All this space
Not a single house
Or another person

I am warm
Sunlight allows me
To play with shadows

Other sounds are to be heard here
Once I let the road noise
Become no more than the back story

available for kindle here