London is alive

like an anthill in the woods

With eclectic purpose

Magnetic gatherings

and scatters like a starling flock

in slow motion


Into the beige cornfields

plainly waiting for the summer

Holding feelings in our bellies

A green woodpecker loops and chatters

Seemingly oblivious



A Thames full of breath

from torrents, which soaked my shirt

and hampered electric topiary.

The sky has plenty

more hanging grey bags

crimped with ripe purpleĀ portent.

The river is a grey of completeness

in swirling union

where Up meets Down

and exhales a seaward sigh.

Tail wind

Here are Saturday evening skies

June to July

Clouds of the passing day

Threatening greys

and greens baulked and braced

against theĀ remnants of gales

moving blues

as we sink