For Me My Stem It Said So

Again then

My stem

Stated not to name

Tension climbs the spine

Pulls right across the shoulder

Brought on by

Being of the bold

In the untold middle of nowhere

The water

Runs slowly into 

The drain below

Below the wisteria

Below the bamboo cane

The clay and slate rotate

In some forbade rectangle

Emigrate

It’s not too late 

For you and Mr. Bojangles

A corner light, a mistook sight

Mistletoes of Spanish rain

Temeraire from County Clare

The swollen peace there to sustain

The clock ticks

The room is cold

Olden days

Are over

Silence is the pastime

Write once more the last rhyme

Onward goes the beach wise drover

With the loss of heather and clover

Carriages and crucibles

Rubies and cubicles

Statuettes of liberation

The siren and the seagull

Drift through shores of evil

From wave to wave

They crave

Until the neaps

Are fair full

Carved wood

Fallen leaf 

Compost 

By the thrush

It is no shame

Again then

Not to name

For me

My stem

It said so

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On Every Sunday Of The Year

Tick tock, drip drop

Clocks gong in the garden

Chitter chatter

Bach plays a cantata

Newly scribed

Fairly scattered

On every 

Sunday of the year

Be dur a dub

Per dup

Ber dub 

A dup, purr dup

Mathematician

Of the counterpoint

On every 

Sunday of the year

Lah la de la

Di lad

E la, lad

A la de dee

Introvert

Invert of controversy

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The National Game Of Men Insane

Out of the box, it falls onto the floor it owns

A photograph; black & white football stripe

A sight to see forty years odd, and ripe

Before the scars, the tissues torn

The cortisone injections

A time of legends and football unshackled

Cindered covered parkland in skilful sin

Sticking the boot in

Cut tight skin on padded shin

The premeditated, berated

Serrated sliding tackle

Youths prepared for battle

Marsden wreck on Monday night

Little love lost; local league, a game, a fight

Soccer; it’s like this from Stockport to Seattle

Later; time for pints in the bar

The bus to town, remember to score

Chasing starts; toes touch the dance floor

Foes in frolic and fellowship with. Those

Infamous football stars

Back home

All over for another season

They visit, we visit

We don’t need much reason

Keeps us cut to the bone

We’ve kicked and spit; breathed our last

Put our arms around each other, inane

The national game of men insane

Caught up, as the red mist

Falls upon our past

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So Swift

The painter paints

Lays oil upon his canvas

Sees further than the sky

His aim never wanes

His picture only to be

For life, for liveliness

To have a new edge

Such that you and I

Can wonder more

At the world about us

My words though to stay

Are by compare

So swift; here, and then away

No pause to escape delay

In sands of time perhaps

But for now; a poem for this day

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The Country In City Clothes

There were forty-two

Sheep in the field

Forty-two

Or forty-three

Should it matter

You could count

Them in a photograph

If it is of such importance

If you wish

Pull on your Wellingtons

Plunge into the flooded mud

At the bog end bit of the field

By the stream

If that helps

Because I just wondered

If you would truly enjoy to sink

Cars drive by

Every morning

In sun, in rain

Or as today, today…

The field before the fallen tree

A few years ago now

The flowers too, surely

They will in turn die

A lonely walk this

The country in city clothes

Black on green, red on brown

The flowered lapel

It is the final story

This, and the tears

Which somehow are

Always to follow later

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