Jocular

His shoes have yellow laces

She wants to dance in summer frocks

In this style they head off to the races

With little worry for their turning clocks

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Provisions

Thirty-six years later

Swedish Krisprolls in the cupboard

Port Salut cheese in the fridge

Two computers and a stereo in the sitting room

Thirty-seven, the first time of moving

The following year, a first trip to the supermarket

Yet the wine, the chilled white wine

Lost itself along the way

Psychologically, not physically

In the sort of depth of a passion

Towards, or away from, a profession or career

No, or yes, in that sense it was white wine

Do I read too much into your physicality

To replace fable with reality

Only I know, though I do do try

To let others in, on some of the goings on

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Inside Outside

From meditation

Through to lunch

With hardly a break

For doing good

Or helping anyone

But myself

Then

And only then

While cooking sausages

I decided to take a photograph

Of the sunlit trees

And the fields, covered in mist

Which means a few steps

Down the garden path

Towards the compost bin

Whose lid had been dislodged

And whose repair

Left lunch rather well done

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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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