Cube 5: Left, bottom, front, right, back, top

The red telephone box is gone
Only a small square
Of flattened tar-macadam remains
Of those cross-channel love conversations

Someone once told me
Of those cross-channel love conversations
Where the calf acts as a second heart
Pumping blood around the body

Should either of these stories be true
Only a small square
Of remains would be a fine thing
Someone once told me

A place for a fountain
Of remains would be a fine thing
A place for a patch of freesias
Where the calf acts as a second heart

A scent, a memory of skin on skin
Of flattened tar-macadam remains
A place for a patch of freesias
Pumping blood around the body

Should either of these stories be true
The red telephone box is gone
A place for a fountain
A scent, a memory of skin on skin

Available on Amazon
In Print and for Kindle

Cube 5: Top, left, bottom, front, right, back

Sunshine soddened Friday afternoon
Soft sands, rippled for the weekend
Cigarettes packed in cabin baggage
Travelling from sun to sun

Soft sands, rippled for the weekend
Departure lounge, arrival hall
Always waiting, always kissed on greeting
Time will have its way, always, and true

The gift of time, the gift of you
Time will have its way, always, and true
There is no restraint
There need be no need for restraint

Sunshine soddened Friday afternoon
Departure lounge, arrival hall
Are we coming, are we going
The gift of time, the gift of you

Cigarettes packed in cabin baggage
Are we coming, are we going
Warm skin, bare warm skin
There is no restraint

Travelling from sun to sun
Always waiting, always kissed on greeting
Warm skin, bare warm skin
There need be no need for restraint

Available on Amazon
In Print and for Kindle

Cube 5: Back, top, left, bottom, front, right

Eight miles to the coast
Every day an early morning trek
Eight miles seeing more than most
The artist's tools are his deck

Not prose nor poems be they be
Yet invitingly descriptive
Of that route to the sea
Eight miles to the coast

Yet invitingly descriptive
His style prescribes the daily plea
Every day an early morning trek
Capturing the minutest single speck

Amid the vastness of creativity
Capturing the minutest single speck
On these the flat-lands of Lincolnshire
The artist's tools are his deck

Not prose nor poems be they be
His style prescribes the daily plea
Founded on the sandstones of life
Amid the vastness of creativity

Of that route to the sea
Founded on the sandstones of life
Eight miles seeing more than most
On these the flat-lands of Lincolnshire

Available on Amazon
In Print and for Kindle

Cube 5: Right, back, top, left, bottom, front

I wish I had a river to skate on
O that I had heard the silence
On the ice floats of the North Pole
In the spring of summertime

My neighbour begins to build
I wish I had peace to wait on
On the ice floats of the North Pole
Darkness now so slight delayed

I wish I had moved the hour on
To play the midnight play
I wish I had a river to skate on
My neighbour begins to build

To play the midnight play
Never since, and never yet
I wish I had peace to wait on
Nowhere else, and nowhere near

As we found where we belong
Nowhere else, and nowhere near
In the spring of summertime
Darkness now so slight delayed

I wish I had moved the hour on
Never since, and never yet
O that I had heard the silence
As we found where we belong

Available on Amazon
In Print and for Kindle

Cube 4: Top, right, left, back, front, bottom

In that place of nowhere knowing
With those footsteps steadfast going
To that dance of girls a throwing
In that place of nowhere knowing

To that dance of girls a throwing
Here we go our oats a sowing
Smiling eyes and cheeks all glowing
As if the morning cockerel crowing

With those footsteps steadfast going
To the west wind wildly blowing
Step by step our beauty showing
In that place of nowhere knowing

In that place of nowhere knowing
Step by step our beauty showing
Smiling eyes and cheeks all glowing
Hand in hand our lust is growing

In that place of nowhere knowing
To the west wind wildly blowing
Here we go our oats a sowing
Skin on skin with snowdrops snowing

Skin on skin with snowdrops snowing
In that place of nowhere knowing
As if the morning cockerel crowing
Hand in hand our lust is growing

Available on Amazon
In Print and for Kindle