Swell

My tummy

Is beginning to feel like

Your expectant belly

Which

While it has a certain allure

I know is not too too good for me

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Lover Love

Nineteen-fifty-three

For a man who likes numbers

It was the year that my brother

And a one time lover were born

Without fear today we take on Shrewsbury

A place where another lover and I

Used to go to the folk festival

One year we were there as stewards

Back to numbers, yesterday my friend

Mailed me a dozen love poems

As though his loving bottle had exploded

Was he always, all, all or nothing

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Twist and turn

Should I tidy up

Or should I play

Or, for the sake of balance

Should I do a bit of both

Meanwhile I post a photograph

To Instagram, and also

Oh I don’t know what to say

Not quite my ex that’s for certain

Anne, once our next door neighbour

Said that she did not care for the term

Partner, nor lover either actually

Why not just boyfriend or girlfriend

Should I give up trying to tidy up

And while I am at it stop playing

Because I’m tying myself in knots

And maybe you also

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Away and home

Cakes and ale

Both are fine

Though not together

What else

Then to find

That is better apart

For instance

The singing bowl

And the bodhrán

May in the future

Be looked back upon

As soulmates

While the coir rug

Points to the flat

In Kingsbridge

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Home and away

Raindrops

Fall on the yard

Where leaves already await

Yesterday’s trip

Beside the drain

On worn out subsided roads

Today it is the sound

Which I take as kindness

A sort of companion to silence

And with that

I am taken to the Cotswolds

To the monastery

Once housed

In a brutalist modernist building

But now somewhat different

Time moves on

Societies rise and fall

I live as living proof of such

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