Longest night pierced by
flaming wings of coal black birds.
I am working with an artist on an illustrated collection of my poems, Living without Labels. The book is scheduled for publication in 2018.
The last train has been and gone.
A destination board illuminates two bicycles
alone at last in the station rack,
locked in an embrace.
His, angular, splattered with mud,
leather saddle built for endurance.
Hers, rounded, set up for comfort,
dressed in a fashionable lilac livery.
His front tyre touches hers,
like horses nuzzling in a field.
A hard helmet rests in her wicker basket.
Did he ring her bell? Was she impressed by whistles?
Days pass. Images are analysed.
Two men clad in blue plastic,
armed with bolt cutters and compassion,
carefully set the lovers free.
ARTS AND SCIENCE
I was speaking to my daughter
of the properties of water –
the flow, the singing brooks,
reflections on a placid mere
the inspiration of a tear,
how it differs from the rocks.
No Dad, she said, rocks too can flow,
erupt and spew and turn to gas
when subject to sufficient mass –
just watch the molten lava flow
from this Icelandic volcano.
it’s not important what it is,
what matters is how hot it is.
The curtain rises for Act Three.
Familiar characters, choices made,
yet still we can’t divine
the plot twists yet to come
or who will take the bows
before the throng departs.
Third acts may be short or long.
November wind chills
so we add a layer of cloth.
Yet knowledge from six decades gone
strips layers from the onion
and memories of strange old worlds
cast light upon the stage ahead.
'MASONRY FALLS ON MP'S CAR'
Please knock it down and start again,
use cloth and ropes in place of stone.
That Gothic pile lets in the rain –
please knock it down.
It’s time to leave the steel and chrome,
head out down every country lane
with big bright tents and mobile phone.
Democracy could take the train –
like courts of old, make leaders roam.
With one loud voice let all proclaim,
‘Please, knock it down.’