Taking some of this world with him

The wheat is still ripening

This July

While everlasting sweet peas still

spill down the railway embankment


The sun still warms

through breaks in the cloud

While my father waits

On a cold shelf

To be transformed

Taking some of this world with him

Palm House

Power assisted doors enclose

And envelope musty sweet artichoke aromas.

Damp jurassic greens climb titanic stems

like trees, under glass

A slow prehistoric blanket

of mountaineering moss floods fibre haired stems

Ringed and ridged

To protect from giant tortoise teeth

On one side

It balances me

The one sided weight that carries me

A curvaceous case with waist contained

Taught with strings and horsehair

Pads and powder in secret pockets

and velvet black vibrations like memories held in amber

A black box of perfect proportion

Closed not opened

Held in

Little oak river

On rarely seen plain ivy vein

Dark scattered steps of green weave down

To the sleeping screen of dark water.

Brambles scramble over ancient ditches

and the fox tracks under forgotten fences

wend dry dens under long dead elder,

leaning and cracking with the weight of others.

Who knows here?

Not the screeching parakeet fleet

Not the siren bumbling through crowded cars

nor the silent roar of the London bound.

The little oak river runs rapid beyond the bank of flint and earth

Shrouding in dusk,

Receding from versimilltude

Island darkness

Cinnamon and cinnabar and giant marzipan

Melting mango fibered flesh oozing

syrup above scatterings of scuttling sail chinned dinosaurs.

Swarming stripes of black and yellow

ripple on frangipani – a name I don’t remember

except for tropical Plumeria smells of heat and rich sun on pale skin.

The streamlined horns and bulbs of red escape,

then eat their elegant umbrellas.

Hornet warnings flash for the birds

and coqui frogs, in the night, chirping beyond their bounds.

A cacophony of pings and sings

summoning shooting stars from the Pleiades

to scratch the darkness

To scratch the reflection in mosquito waters

The swirls of stars and galaxies in paddles wake

Chunks of light tumble from my hand

as drip trails fish follow shooting in the shallows

like a splash of silent light

Quiet in the mangrove night



Small farmer’s lament

I miss your mess of grey white hair

Your tufted stretch of leather,

over taught warm muscle.

I miss the deep tearing mouthfuls of grass

Chewing like a typewriter cartridge on elastic strings of slobber

Your super tongue, feeling, like a handful of fingers.


You were running for fun

Drumming the soil with half ton hooves

with high kick flicks and snorts.

We saw you as dusk raised a magic moon

and mist lost your numbers in a slow drift swoon.


I miss your eyes, your dark crystal skies

Etched with shadows and lined with long lashes

To keep off the splashes

of shit, sometimes smeared by your friends

A green grey stain, waiting for the rain to restore

Your soft cheeks.

Your black ears cocked and swept

Like folded felt shells

Seaching for warnings,

fore and aft.

When all else is peace

Quiet great masses slumped together

Stretched sacks of stomach, digesting,

And steaming at dawn


A mist that fails to lift

The ground without horizon

Just a banana yellow strewn floor

and leaves falling

occasionally overtaken by condensed drips of daylight

The damping down of a day done

before it has begun,

cut through by light of the approaching night

Fly Girl

If you were a trout fly, I would tie you tight

I’m treble hooked in feathered flight

I love the way that water and your hair ignite

Exploding curls in ever expanding delight

Like ripples from a water kiss

Tempting rainbows from the abyss


Above, you are my kestrel kite

my shooting star at night

The sunlight on my skin

and  the warmth within

my love.