JUST LIKE JOHN'S

The musicians play

A Lennon song.

John is gone,

Now long gone

For peace and love

Were not to be

His final song.

None know

Their final path,

Around which corner

There lurks death.

However they map

Their way

Always someone other

Has the final say.

But even after they

Have gone

They can leave

One last laugh,

One final song,

Still have their say,

Stay on and on,

Music lingering on the lips,

Just like John's.

THIS TRAIN

This train

Is leaving

Station number one.

This is

Only the first

Station on the line.

There are

Many more

Stations to explore.

This is only

This time;

Death here

Is not the last track,

A first, slow way

Forward with no way back.

Time is only

The distance between

Sleepers

Measured in turns

Of wheels.

This train, now

At station number one,

Is, simply, moving on.

FLOWERS AT THE GATE

In the classroom,

See, she sits alone

After all the other children

Have gone home.

Though she cannot see

Through tears

Anymore,

Her classmates

Not see her,

She is not on her own,

Witness the flowers

At the gate

Where hushed groups

For her final passing.

They will remember

This moment for life

When grief was bright

In the flowers

On a rainy day

And speak her name

Again, again, again.

WALKING OUT THE DOOR

Couldn't use his body

Anymore,

So, he

Walked out the door,

His decison,

His choice,

The last whisper

From his voice,

Hoarse in the night,

Bright as the raven's

Tumbling in the

Mountain winds.

Free in flight,

His soul flew

On his last breath

For a life away,

Real living,

From an existence

That was death.

IN THE MORNING OF MY DREAMS

In the morning of my dreams

I shall remember, always,

The tilt of your head,

The smile in your eyes,

Without tears,

Your form,

Your warmth,

Your voice.

I shall not forget

In the mourning of my dreams.

I HEARD HIM SING

I heard him softly sing,

Again and again,

As he sat alone

But never alone,

Surrounded, corralled,

"Take me home."

Not of West Virginia

Were his dreams,

Not of rolling plains

Or mountain ranges,

Yet, on his lips

That barely spoke the words,

I heard,

Distinctly,

"Take me home."

GENTLE TOUCH

The touch of your hand,

I shall remember,

Forever more;

The brush of your lips,

Soft on my cheek,

As you said, "Goodbye."

I shall not forget

Always, your tenderness,

Even in pain,

I shall remember,

Never forget

Your gentle touch.

LADY IN BLACK

The lady in black

Was by his bedside

For many a night

Before he had the courage

To ask her to dance.

He saw her not in black

But white,

An angel of mercy

In the dark hours,

A bright relief

And when, at last,

The pain was gone

He took her arm

And crossed the floor,

Gliding as never before

And saw her home

And stayed that night,

No more to return

When day was light.

HER LOVE

It had a grip on her

That controlled her life,

Her eyes, her smile,

Her voice, her touch,

No little was too much,

It was her principle

Co-ordinate

In life

And in the end

It led her home,

Safe, without a fuss.

She was and is,

And always will be,

A part of us,

Even though apart

From us,

Bound from beyond

By her lasting,

Ever lasting,

Stainless, no-rust

That will not blow away

With the dust,

Her love.

YOUNG OLD GIRL

Jiving with a zimmer frame

May sound bizarre

But Molly was not

Your normal nonagenarian

Nor was she vegetarian,

Red meat, red wine

Her style

And when the band played jazz,

Man or no man,

She'd be there with her spare legs

Shaking her rare, red legs

For all life could give.

An artist in an unusual medium

Of metal and movement

She lived for the rhythm

Of the moment

And even at this moment

She'll be jazzing

To the all star band,

Laughing, laughing,

Enjoying the grand

Rhythm of beyond,

The forever, never

Whirl of runs

And rills,

Legs a swirl.

That was Molly,

Young old girl.

HOLIDAY TIME

Gone on a journey,

Gone on a journey,

She's gone on a journey,

Holiday time,

Vacation from daily,

Doly drudgery,

Rawtime.

Gone on a journey,

Not coming back.

Would you?

Once you break the back

Of daily living,

Daily striving to make a buck,

Care for the family,

See them right,

Always reponsible,

In charge.

Well, now, she's at large,

Ranging the other space

Where there is freedom

To stretch and move.

She's gone on a journey,

Travelling on,

On her way,

Journeying on,

So, no objections,

Wave her along.

SLOW DANCER

She was a slow dancer

When it came to dying,

Moving in the final corner

On the slippery floor of life,

So near the edge,

So graceful,

No fear of falling,

Sure of her steps

To the end.

Faith and assurance

Born of practice,

She was the last one

On the floor

As the music faded

And the lights dimmed.

No one saw her pass

Into the night;

She went

As a whisper on the wind.

OPENING THE DOOR

I open the door.

You are not there,

The house is empty,

Empty your chair.

A spider scuttles

By the fire place.

I start at the movement

In this deserted space

And yet

The memories are good,

They give me grace,

The will to carry on.

I see your smile;

I feel the comfort

Of your warm embrace;

I feel that love that

Lingers on.

There is no death of love

Though you have gone;

There is no death

Where memories remain

And while I remember,

Memories ease my pain.

SEA POWER

Let it go,let it be.

Love is for the free.

Threads are broken,

Without words spoken,

Words are mere tokens

Of feelings, thoughts,

Let it go, let it be.

There really was no you:

There really was no me,

Only one of us.

Now the sea has washed over

And only one rock is left

On this shore;

You are part of a greater ocean,

So, I let go, let be.

HEALTH WARNING

Well, you've eaten your last meal.

Paid the price,

Inspite of those years of pasta and rice

To make up for the cigs and booze,

Fast food of the fast years.

Was it worth the change of diet,

The cholesterol free, no eggs, no cheese,

When a little garlic and red wine

Might have kept you fine

And doing the hippy, hippy shakes

To the last.

I got news.

You died of

The healthy carbo-hydrate blues

STAR TREK

Don't get around much any more.

Inevitable, when you're dead

But nothing to do with age.

Time travel becomes the rage

In the later years of life.

Just hook in and away we go.

It's the star show

Round memory lane and future row.

So, when death comes

You're on the way,

It's just the take-off

With booster rockets at full.

Hear them roar into life

As you slide out

At full throttle.

No, don't get around much any more

Because you're away in a straight line,

Off to explore

A previously

Hidden planet.

A TOAST

Black velvet round the coffin,

Black velvet round the hearse,

Black velvet coats the horses

Drawing him home at last.

Black velvet in the glass,

Smoothing the final path.

This is the wake of the boat,

A creamy froth on black waters

As we say goodbye.

Farewell life's warrior!

Here's to life!

Cheers to those who live!

He'd have wanted it that way,

Draining the glass

To the last.

EPITAPH - "SIMPLY THE BEST"

"Simply the best."

Now she is

At rest from being,

"Simply the best."

In a life,

Sometimes full of trouble,

Nothing was too much,

Nothing too little.

She would help

All the rest,

Let her epitaph be,

"Simply the best."

"SMOOTH OPERATOR"

He was a "smooth operator"

In all he did.

Let's face the facts,

An eye for the girls,

The "main chance".

He led a merry dance,

Yes, a "merry dance",

Living life to the full

Where even "the bull"

Was genuine,

In a way,

His way,

Which he always made

Your way.

One of life's gentle men

With a twinkle in his eye,

Always a thought to your view,

Considerate, kind,

Never blind to others,

Yes, a smooth operator

And always a friend.

SUNSHINY DAY

"It's going to be a bright,

Sunshiny day,"

She used to say,

"When I've gone

That'll take all the pain away

That no drugs can.

One day the window will open

And I'll go through

Where the air is fresh.

I'll be sorry I'm going

Away from you

But 'I'm going to go

When I got to go'

To get away from pain,

Where it doesn't rain anymore.

Yes, one day soon

It'll be, for me,

A bright, sunshiny day."

"SWEET OLD LADIES"

I once heard

A psychiatrist say

That to be a "sweet old lady"

You had to be that way

By five years old.

So, no gold in childhood

No golden days in age;

No alchemist can conjure

From dross nature

So pure a metal;

However, life may grind and bubble,

Cool and distill,

It is for creation's will

Or not at all.

If this be true,

There is no "fall",

All are born or early brought to grace,

Or not,

As case may be

And thus there is

No disgrace

In lack of "sweetness"

In the aged

That in spite or malice,

Sharpness of tongue

Plagued all that cared.

There is no personal fault

And when at last there is

Silence, peace,

Relief for all,

Then simply a sigh,

Even a tear,

Can be shared

In passing.

THE EMPTY CHAIR

No one spoke of the empty chair

In the fold between wall and window.

Cracked lives broken by age

Went on with daily routine,

Pills and potions from the witches store,

Visitors they pretended to ignore.

No one spoke of the empty chair,

For all they knew

It waited there

Where one could view

The world beyond

This place of daily rain

Where no grain grew

And life was spent,

Time for waiting

For the next call.

They glanced

In the fold between

Wall and window

And no one spoke

Of the empty chair.

NOT CRICKET

Have you noticed how often eulogists

Talk like sports commentators:

"He ran a good race",

"He had a good innings;

Stood firm at the crease;

Played every ball life bowled him

With a straight bat;

Kept his wicket intact

Until clean bowled by God",

As though life is only about

Muscularity.

Yet there are those who live lives to the full

Who are not muscular,

Save in intellect or kindness,

Gentleness, love,

For them life is not

A fight for supremacy,

A display, a joust,

An imitation of war

And showy skill,

It is a quiet place

Where other people dwell

And they can share

And care, embrace

And kiss away the tears,

Sooth the bruises

And bathe away despair.

Their strength unseen and real

Which no eulogist can portray,

Betray with the irrelevance

Of words

From "Sport for the Day".

AGNOSTIC

Monkey, monkey up the wall

Where now the sigh that saves us all?

Where the old man in the sky?

Where the wherefore and the why?

Now we post-Darwinians know our past,

Why not plenty? No point the fast,

No point the prayers, no point the grace

For evolution treads its pace

And we within it have our place.

Whatever we do, whatever we think

Evolution takes us to the brink,

Some survive while others sink.

Monkey, monkey up the wall

Catching at crossed trees

To save us as we fall

And swinging upward once again

Become the upright monkey then

And men and she-men, as they swing

For a brief time, in the jungle,

That is their life,

Become the King Monkey,

Monkey up the wall,

Where now the one dying sigh

That saves us all?

SENSE OF HUMOUR

"Where's your sense of humour?" he'd say

As he pinched a nurses bottom as she passed.

Born before the days of political correctness

When being "sexually harrassed" was something

Females had to accept and enjoy from

The grown up little boy in all men,

He had no sense of propriety.

If he had, he'd grown out of it.

"What's the use of being old," he'd say

"If you can't be naughty

And get away with it, call it,

'The privelege of age.' "

And, strangely, he was right.

There is a charm that makes one

'Turn the other cheek', so to speak;

For those on the edge of life,

When they twinkle, you sparkle back,

When they let you look through there long telescope

Scanning the planets they have lived on,

Light years away, you forgive the fingers

Trying to make mirror focus adjustments

And missing the controls as once they missed

The gear change in younger, rangier days.

"Where's your sense of humour?"

Yes, in time you smile a voluntary smile,

Understanding, caring what makes

Other's lives worthwhile, makes yours worthwhile,

A smile,

LAUGHTER FOREVER

" You've got to laugh," she'd say,

"Otherwise it 'ld be such a dreary day.

You've got to laugh,

Or otherwise you'd cry."

And then she'd laugh and laugh

And cry with laughing.

"Oh, I could die laughing," she'd say.

"I can't stop," she'd gasp and laugh

Again, again, again.

Until, one rainy day,

She saw the darkening sky

And died laughing,

The power of laughter

Taking her last breath

So it could laugh forever.

REFLECTIVE MOMENT

She looked in the mirror.

She was not vain.

It was a habit that had developed

In the long, lonely years,

A desire to see a human face,

Even though it was her own.

She looked in the mirror

And there was no reflection,

No familiar face.

She had not noticed any change

Before this moment.

She stared, transfixed,

No reflection in the mirror.

"What happens next?" she thought

And  then the reflection returned

And she sighed loudly,

"Just a little practice,"

She thought.

The next time

It was for real.

THE BROKEN WORD

"See you later," he said

As he closed the door.

He never did.

He was only up the street

When they called the ambulance.

No one called me.

It was all over when I was told.

"He didn't suffer," they said.

So, that's all right then.

I just don't believe them

When they say he's gone.

He wasn't the sort to cut and run.

Yes, I saw him in the chapel of rest,

All fresh faced and like an angel

But he wasn't there.

So he's got to be somewhere.

I keep expecting him to walk in,

Tell me it's okay.

Everyday I keep expecting him,

All the time.

I know he won't really

Come back, ever

But I can't believe it.

He's still too real,

Memories too solid.

I still argue with him,

Demand to know why he's late.

I get no answers.

It's like dancing with a broom

in an empty room

When the band's gone home.

I suppose in time the flowers will fade,

Lose their colour, and so will sorrow,

Self pity, but right now

I want to cry and scream

My pain aloud for me,

For me, for me.

You see, he said he'd see me later

And he never did.

WAKE

Silence is the wake of the siren

As the ambulance dashes through town

And half a step

And half a word

The people pause

Unfinished thoughts put down

And each is alone

For a moment

Under the siren,

Inside

After the last word spoken,

Last breath

On a last ride.

Jetsam of shops and offices

Bobbing on the turn of the tide

Silent

On the wake of the siren,

Faces,

They cannot hide.

THE OLD MAN

Cobwebs hang in the corners

And the old man does not see them.

His moist eyes cloud

But he does not weep.

He smiles.

He sleeps

The few years

He remembers half awake dreams

He never had

and retells

To anyone who will listen

A much retold story.

He has no new stories to tell.

He does not know unhappiness

Though occasionally

He speaks of pain.

Occasionally the kingfisher

Down the wasting waters of his mind.

We are surprised.

He is content

Dozing among the cobwebs.

He is not waiting for death.

LIFE AFTER DEATH

Never look behind you when you leave;

Never say,"Goodbye."

Remember me not as I am,

A rotting, paraplegic hulk

Wrecked on the rocks of time

But as I was.

So shall I live

The life I lived

As long as you shall live,

As long as memory shall give me life

In you

And in your children

Whom you tell of me;

In all of you

I shall attain

Immortality,

Eternal youth

Till the last ember fade

Ash in the wind

Of the grey sky

And forgotten

I am dead.

KERNEL OF SILENCE

From the kernel

Green leaves, black bark and blossom,

Chestnut white,

Laburnum gold,

Lilac, cherry, apple

Unfold,

Shelter,

Shade,

Feed.

In my mind

There is a kernel

That sees silence,

Like the heat rising on a summer day,

Through the glass

Gazing on green fields

Waving slowly in the wind,

The hawk hovering,

The passing gull

Sailing over a silent sea.

I love

The sight

Of these.

They are more to me

Than all sounds

Deaf years

Have silenced.

SUDDEN DEATH

No pain,

No conscious thought

If I could 'phone,

If I could reach the wall

To knock,

Just death

That took away the last breath

As the first had brought life,

No fear,

No strife,

Switched off

In mid-sentence,

No difference

Being alone

Or in a crowd,

The swift shroud

Is an isolation

That unites

SUNSHINE, SUNSHINE.

(DROUGHT)

Beneath the white tower

On the hill,

Built to hold water,

The land bleeds

Over withered stems

Of weary, drought-ripe ears,

Barely

Barley,

Unseasoned,

Empty.

No lapping green waters

Rain away

The blood.

Poppies live on dust,

In cool

Of cloudless evening,

Rust.

THE CROW

"Jesus loves me. This I know."

I could not see a human voice.

There was a crow.

"Get off my shoulder, Crow,"

I cried.

It flew away.

I wept

And died.

THINKING ABOUT IT

Thinking

Of the sword of death

As a blunt saw

Dragging

Its teeth

On the skull,

Grating

Slowly

Through

The brain,

There is a peculiar horror

In the remotness

Of dying alone,

Pulling rubbed raw limbs

Over burning sands,

Helpless,

Toward an unknown,

Unseen

Precipice

Of if;

If there was help

I may not go;

If death

Come quick

I may not know;

An end.

WINDY NIGHT

As though in heart of thunder cloud I lay,

The wind rumbling

Down the brick canyon of the village

Snatching tile and slate,

Shouldering chimney pots,

Clutching at pansies,

Tearing trees;

Pulling, pushing,

Riving, roving,

Testing.

That a little breeze

Should grow to giant gale

Brawling, belching,

Rude and arrogant

To frighten little children,

Demolish old men's

Dreams.

ANT COLONY

Bereavment made her mad;

She could not bear to live there

Where she had not been alone.

She left

To return again

And leave

And return.

The memories burned her

And yet she burned to return

Whenever she was away.

The garden overgrew;

The ants colonized;

The brown grass

Jungled weedily

Standing hayed and hid

The flowers that had cheered her garden.

At last, quaking to break,

The seal on the deed

Broke the seal

That held her.

The grass was cut.

Next year

The flowers grew

And no one knew

The pain that created dereliction.

The ants had been poisoned.

CONFESSION

My love is dying

I know.

I want to see her

But I do not want to

"Come out",

"Go public".

I want to sneak in,

Speak softly

And gently sneak out.

But everyone wants to come.

I can only face it alone.

I stay away

And pray

Hoping that some strange sense

Will tell her why.

And when she dies

I still cannot face

All those faces

As the earth receives her

And she rests at last.

Life makes us all prisoners

In a zoo

And apart from "the valley of death"

The escape routes are closely guarded.

One day I shall visit

Where she sleeps,

Weep privately

And no one will know

That we have spoken.

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

When children die

We weep a little more.

We imagine the best

In store.

Past time has not had chance

To exert the raw

And prove life

And empty.

RENEWAL

The slim sickle moon,

The sky part mown

For Venus' star above to shine,

A swathe of dark clouds far

Against a headland.

This month is a new time

To plant a new vine

In the terrace of the mind.

The warmth is rising in the earth

And what was old and winter

Is spring and summer.

It will not be long before we drink the wine

Together

And laugh again.

WOMAN IN THE CROWD

You can see she will know sorrow;

Her eyes don't catch the light;

They stare above the conversation;

A song hums in her head;

Her hand wanders to her mouth

To insert an absent  cigarette.

Only her teeth smile

And her cheeks, high on the bone

Are ready to droop, melt, flatten,

To be washed away.

Time is not on her side

Whoever the man that stands there.

High on the cheek of the moor

The bone of rock breaks through,

The slim beck tumbles down the face,

Bruised purple by the heather,

Blackened by the burning.

The moor is crying;

You can hear her crying

As the curlew flies.

Sorrow is on the wind.

Time is not on her side

Whoever the man that stands there.

The street is cold in the early hours;

The windows don't catch the light;

They stare above the silence;

Only the tread of her lonely feet

Hum in her head,

Hand wandering to steady her smile

As, drooping on the kerb of bone,

She meets her time

And the staring man

Stands still.

INSIDE THE MAIDEN'S HEAD

(Written at Mallyan Spout)

Standing inside the maiden's head,

The green branches of her thoughts

Intertwine

And there is the sound,

Always the sound

As the fine fronds of her silver hair

Fall down behind.

I try to look out of her head;

I can only see her hair.

I am in her mind;

Imprisoned in her mind.

I am cool and clear.

I am amid the moss grown rocks,

Slippery

But I am sure.

There is creation and endurance here,

The soft shaping of rocks in the summer;

The mighty re-arrangement of shapes in winter;

The gentle growth of green ferns

And the sound,

Always the sound

Of the life force.

I want to stay forever

Imprisoned

In the twined branches

Inside

The maiden's head.

CHILDREN OF LIGHT

Squirming under the big belly of night,

Ridden by fear,

Dazzled to wing tremors

By the occasional light,

Starlings swarming,

Arcing, swirling

From roost to rest

In one surge

At a slight sound.

We lie on this river bank

After currents have swept us

In and out of the rocks and whirlpools.

We are still spinning;

Creatures made weak

But when night rises,

What a dawn!

The starlings will sweep away

To war on grubs in leather jackets

And we will fish the still water,

Watch the heron

Paint pictures,

Caress smooth stones at the water's edge,

Children of light, after all,

Who were afraid

In the dark.

LONG NIGHTS SHORT DAYS

We sit by the fire and talk to each other:

You do not hear what I say;

Your head is full of the waves pounding on the shore,

Scooping the cliffs keel

Where no birds wheel and cry in the long dark

Only the clouds streaming across the moon

Carry your thoughts

To battle.

I only see you as you were long years ago

Before the nights, each a winter long,

Drew your mind to envy Odin's daughters.

I do not hear your wolf cries for dead heroes;

I do not heed you when you stare at the flames

And shriek for the death wolf rising.

I humour you as you sharpen my old arrows,

Twine a bow string from your hair

With low incantations.

The blue frost flickers in your mind

And I want to carry you again to my ship,

To journey for trade now,

To face the challenge of the long voyage to Spain,

To Vinland, new discoveries.

Too late.

When I was at war,

A viking,

You had to stay,

No place for women,

But your wild will would have made you a man.

You know your waste of years

And rock by the fire.

Tomorrow you say you will go to the cliffs

And, with your hair blown in the gale,

Will see the wolf rise again

From the gorse.

My hand will not reach you

As my tongue fails now

And you will plunge into the deep boat

And ride for Odin,

Sing

As you sang once for me.

DEAD SAILORS

Each wave that rides the flat ocean,

Clawing its way to land

White fingers gouging rocks and clay,

Climbing ashore

Never gaining a sure grip,

Falling away,

Washing away the finger hold

Of each successive comrade,

Battling against each other

Until, exhausted, they drown

And the sea is calm,

Each wave

Is a drowned sailor

And the calm

Is when they sit at the Sea God's table

And toast his maidens

And sleep

In a dream without dreaming

Driven by fast oars

To eternal glory

In strange seas

Where the merest breeze fills the sail

To ease their aching.

There is no waking

Except to ride the flat ocean

Clawing and gouging

At the cliff face

To return to the lost shore.

A MUTUAL HEALTH SERVICE

While traffic intensely intersects the point

With squeal and gush

Going nowhere important

Every morning

The old man walks his dog

Around the ring road roundabout.

Brown ears pricked for trouble,

In his shaggy white coat

He is the caring convenience,

Doctor and friend;

The old man is his dependent patient

Perambulating

The remaining core of life.

THIS TIME

The flames flare round the mast timber,

A light breeze bears another dead viking

Out to sea;

The wolf howls in dark forests,

Clouds fly across the moon

In raven shapes

And white maiden fingers of waves

Carry up the hero

To sleep and wake,

Carouse and fight

And die

And wake, carouse and fight

Until the wolf breaks

And consumes the gods,

Frees men

To create other gods

Too late

To save them from the orange sky,

The brief, bright last light

To be followed

By perpetual night

Longer than many arctic winters

And as cold.

Only the young wolves will survive

To suckle men

Who, under a new dawn,

Create their own legends,

In time,

Become gods

To bind men

And wolves

Till they gain strength,

Invent tricks,

To break the bonds

Once more.

Meanwhile the embers of the viking ship

Sink hissing in the sea

And you turn and weep on my shoulder.

I raise your face

And we kiss for the first time.

WALKING IN THE STORM

You jumped over the mud as we walked

And startled a blackbird.

The flood nearly claimed it.

You said you were sorry.

Gold you said.

Chaff I said

As a shower of finches

Rose and fell four inches

Among  the tree roots.

Not even a bird could fly in that wind.

You cried as your hair whipped your eyes

And laughed

As you clasped me for warmth.

The worst of weather,

Floods, mud, raging and roaring:

Happy minutes

On the edge of freedom.

END OF RAINBOW

Driving along in the driving rain,

Deep puddles dragging wheels,

Puddles that reflect the dark light,

Unclear images of fading weals

Leaving a dragging pain.

There is crying in the wind

But the beautiful promise

Emblazons the black clouds,

The multi-coloured bow

That makes men create myths

Of gold,

Solution to all their problems,

At its illusive,

Elusive end.

Promise of no more pain,

No more crying,

Cheering, hopeful,

Full filled with full colour,

The Sun is not within our view,

Only dark clouds

And that bow

And when the clouds go

There is a clear, blue sky.

No rainbow.

IN THE WOOD

In the wood

The dead man rises from the leafmould,

Looks about his new world

Where a fistful of pills

And gin

Have brought him.

They used to call it 'sin'

But at twenty six he is too young to remember that.

Now they call it

Social Service,

One less on the dole,

One less black hole

Of no job,

No face

For anyone to recognise.

He is his own man now,

No more eating,

No more queueing.

He can wander freely

Leaving his carcasse

To the Coroner

And the post mortem knife

To cut flesh

That never knew life

Before

This awakening.

WOLDS WAY

The brittle bite of the thin wind;

The flint people bent against the steep land;

The occasional glint of spark in eye

When the harsh jest of ale and iron speech

Clip together.

We travel down the cart wide road,

Ewes and lambs embossed above us

Where the land bleeds white through the grass

Grasping a faInt hold against eroding centuries,

Thixendale, Fimber.

The Dane hid here from times turnings,

Farming, making a fold against Winter,

War and the future.

The valley wall is the only fortification needed

Against inquisitions of successive ages

Heeding the call to progress.

Here the whinbush and woodcock,

Fox and hare stare at the motor car,

A chimera raping their haven with obscene haste,

A raucous outburst

In the fine tune of their ancient symphony,

Oppressing, molesting, threatening.

The flint cut on the foot,

The bite of Winter,

These they can bear,

Have born for centuries

But the bare anal sounds and smells

Of this "Thing"

Travelling through

They must fear,

Not for itself,

But as a sign, a portent

Of things more potent

To sweep away

This world,

Their world

Suspended,

Bright

In the bight of the wind

WASHING LINE

The first breath of morning dries dew from the trees,

Hanging, limp on the line still dizzy from the washer,

A family gathering,

Scarred jeans, a fishing smock, green T-shirt, jersey frock.

Thirty miles away among the rocks

Two pairs of jeans lay side by side

While four bare legs raced across sands

To challenge the waves,

Soaring young birds

Flying but flying without the wild sad call

Or angry cry that age, passing for maturity, can bring,

Theirs was a song that only the young can sing.

In the summerhouse at garden end

Smock rubbed against desk

As keys fished words from letters

That fingers hammered from anvil of mind.

The distant telephone ringing in the hollow home

Just snatched in time.

Green shirt, camouflage, creeping through the cool garden, evening.

Suddenly,at the summerhouse door

The enemy confronts the peasant labouring in the field.

The menace, the hesitation of the green soldier

Before he pulls the trigger of voice

And the bullets

Thud, thud, thud,

Thud, thud, thud

As rockets pass through galaxies,

Once launched, beyond recall bound for infinity.

Now, the jersey frock, once worn already washed,

Black as the back of the windgull sweeping under the overhang,

Searching ,

The blue jeans marred with the scar of sharp rocks sawn by the sea,

The green flack jacket T-shirt, unmarked,

Wring memories.

"I've something for you to write about, Dad," he said.

"While you sit in your summerhouse

Real things happen to us.

Your daughter, my sister is...."

And the first breath of morning dries....

HARRY MANNERS

The cold rain lips the tramp's face.

There is a perpetual refrain in his life.

As he pushes his pram,

His old dog riding the roads,

As every day,

Raises a quizzical eyebrow

When walking is suggested.

He eats before the old man

And after him he takes the scraps.

A partnership without the mishaps of marriage.

Work is where the man finds it

When he needs it,

A friendly farmer with a few bales of fodder to fork,

A pub landlord with crates to carry,

His food and drink are paid as found,

His bed and board a barn, a stack

And on bad days

A hedge back

When he gives thanks

For the invention of plastic sacks.

Round roads that bow and buckle

By ground greens, sky greens

To purple penned edge of moor

He perambulates the ring that bounds his freedom

Held in from the anywhere he might fly

By the invisible arachnoid threads

Of passing friendship, familiarity

And of course,

His dog barks a warning

Everytime he is minded

To turn away

TEMPLE OF THE FOUR WINDS

I contemplate my thinning hair

In the willow watchword of the pig iron past

And reflect on the glass image of the churn

Milk white on the stand

That stands not still

For the gliding time

Wood wailing on the forever stream.

The dream is walling up logic leaves,

Their veins dissect the diurnal passing

Of tall ships

On forgotten seas,

The weed wound wound of reason

Throbs through another night

And the sight of fractured patterns

Is the paternoster in another garden

Where black bushes black berried

Bury the dying,

Burn the living,

Quails eggs quenching quiet

With a loud hiss of repeating history,

Bread and water

Slack upon the table of an ancient kitchen

Kniving up the moment

Of the present,

A placid, flaccid portrait

Flaking in the four winds

THE KING OF THE REAPERS IS DEAD

The swash of the scythe no longer sounds

The overture opening the opera of the harvest field.

Even the rattle of the binders of my bygone days,

The clatter as sheaves were shot for stooking,

Is no more the encore in the long late evenings;

No more the hiss of the steam engine,

The thrashing noise of threshing

Making eyes sore with clouds of chaff:

Now the combine with broadbeam cut,

The closed cab,

The harvest in one

As the pale pile folds to machine bed

And grain, as in the hourglass,

Pours into the tractor tracted cart beside.

No rest either

As the combine leaves the field

The ploughs and harrows and drills follow.

No fallow,

But straight the winter wheat is sown

And then to the lifting of potatoes,

Sugar beat;

Lambs from December

And, early as the land allows,

The spring sowing.

Now no slowing of pace,

Time for grace;

No breathing space

To enjoy the fruits,

At the roots

To spoil

The palate

With more than plenty

For all who do not

Starve

Anymore.

That poor man

Among poor men

Borne high on shoulders

At harvest home,

The King of the Reapers,

Is dead.

NEW WRITERS

They all start here

Where life is ended,

The writers new,

With pen up ended

To dig some private grief

Into a page.

With tears and sometimes rage

They scribe away their pain

To open up a wider stage

Where they can walk

Upright again

And see with brighterned eyes

And show that lies

Can be forgotten

When death dies

And mason's art creates

From fresh stone

A face that's free

From the decay of flesh and bone

And by ritual

These writers learn to write

Of things the other side

Of darkness

And their night.

AID

The willow weeps by the straight road;

The barbarian shelters under its boughs,

Hidden.

The halo radiates in the sun:

The dark shadow is still,

Beneath.

Beyond,

The great pool ripples

And little waves crash

Against the farthest wall

Of its shore.

Imperceptibly,

Inexorably,

The willow drinks dry.

Its weeping does not replenish

The supply.

On the straight road

You can stay

Or pass by.

TYPICALLY ENGLAND

Oh what a heap

Of cows and sheep

Under the broad oak tree

Sheltering from the summer sun

In the pasture brown

By the thistledown

And the breeze

and flies

Seen through screwed up eyes.

Oh what a heap

Of cows and sheep

Under the broad oak tree.

LOOK OUT

Between the curtains

The cat stares out

Every night

Watching.

A footfall,

It pricks its ears:

A passing car,

A turn of the head.

I sit watching

The cat.

It will not be long now

When I sit

Staring out of the window

Watching the boats in the harbour,

The summer visitors,

Passing gulls,

Those busy with life

And a cat

Sits watching me,

Waiting.

LOVERS

Over pretty print frock

Dirty hair drapes her raincoat.

Alone in the scurry of hot feet

She sits on a bench

In a square of glass and concrete reflections

Screwing up her lightly painted,

Powdered puppet face,

Giggling,

Holding negatives to the sun.

Close by her long legs

Posed in black patterned tights

Thrust into black wellingtons,

Her dog,

One ear up,

One ear down,

Watches her

Seeing

Nothing incongruous.

I'VE HAD A LOT OF MIST IN MY LIFE

Where they practice the values of Marx

Being a shopkeeper is hard;

Eighteen times they broke in,

Stole my living

But they could not steal me.

My Garden kept me sane

With straight paths I made.

I kept the road in flowers

Breeding roses.

Their colours shone through

And left me clear of debt.

Even in fifty eight

When one hundred and fifty

Died in the mine

There was a rose for every one,

Every one watered

By the drifting mists.

MOTORCYCLIST

My world has no edges

Only the pulse of the road

The open sky

The sunset

The dawn

Dark clouds

Blue veins

Fresh scents

Foul smells

New hay

Freshly spread dung

My head

Close to

Singing wheels

A single note of mind

Played on the frissant string of death

Not for me

The frame

That makes a picture of the world

A chocolate box

That safe sheltered inside feeling

Where air sound smells

Are filtered

And force fed

By fans

Through ducts

Where no tears are allowed

I

Am free

To flash

                  Through

The gateways

                                    Of chance

By swaying

                                    In the rush

Of the wind

My world

                           has

           no

                                                               edges

RAGNORK

There is no heart

Where the grey goose flies

In the setting Sun

Where the stretched snow lies

To the cold World's edge

And the sedge

Crackles crisp

In the wind.

There is no heart

Where the grey goose flies

As horse clouds ride

The flare of moon

Where the sisters sing

Their long lost lay

And on this day,

This day

The night explodes

And there is no heat,

No heat

In the blasting wind

Where the grey goose flies

When the grey goose flies.

REASON

Between green banks,

Knickerbockered knees gnawing through air

Rotating the pedals as if every push was a protest

Against past years wasted

In his particular prison kitchen

As a steaming slave

To the conventions of roofs and eating,

The drugs of family life,

Grey whiskered,

Now he can hear the cuckoo

Without looking at the clock,

See the Sun

Without seeking the dial,

Every revolution of his own legs

Spins him freely forward

With no other purpose

Than breathing the breeze

And smiling.

'SMOKE GETS IN MY EYES'

All my pleading

Cannot match

The matchlight

In your eyes

When you get that craving

You must be raving!

Striking off the years

At every stroke!

And the tears in my eyes

Are not just the smoke

But regret that

Our years together

Are shortened

Every time

You light

Another

Cigarette.

WHEN IT MATTERS MOST

It's late,

The final set.

The bar is nearly empty

And emptying,

The music

Is at its best,

The flute like honey on the air

Then a request,

'Strangers in the night'.

I cannot quite see

The light,

Hear the brightness

In the voice

For friends in the light

Can be forever

Strangers

When it matters most,

Strangers in the night.

CROSSING BRIDGES

The bridges in Bedford

Are pale green

At night,

Their reflected arches

As pale as moonlight

In the in the mirror of Ouse.

The peel in the steeple

Rounds out

Resounding on practice night

While traffic slides

Past the Town Hall.

There is an abundance of cut stone

Stained by time,

Pale limestone

And trees

Turning to Autumn.

St. Paul's Square,

Horne Lane,

Harpur Street,

Where I walk,

There is substance

About the place,

Even the shopping arcade

Is behind a neo-gothic facade

Opposite the confident columns

Of the Corn Exchange.

This is a county town

Built on the prosperity

Of an age

Past,

No more.

Now, behind the monoliths

Of the 1950's

Some shoot heroine,

All registered

And beyond the law,

Throw stones for fun at windows

That ask to be broken.

This is their protest

To an order

That does not regard

Its citizens beyond the Charter.

Now the bell tolls,

The peel has ended.

Now we weep

For times

Ammended.

A DOG BEGAN TO BARK

He sang about 'The Veteran'

And a dog began to bark.

He sang about 'The Veteran'

And a dog began to bark.

Back in the days long gone,

In the jungles of Vietnam

When the silences were deadly,

The only sound a cocking gun

And you were never much alive

Where the jungle leeches thrive

And suck away your blood.

And he sang about 'The Veteran'

And a dog began to bark.

He sang about 'The Veteran'

And a dog began to bark.

The jungles never far away

When you've been there and back

And they tell you you're the lucky one

And only you know the pack

You carry all around the world

Every time you hear a new banner is unfurled

To soak away your blood.

He sang about 'The Veteran'

And a dog began to bark.

He sang about 'The Veteran'

And a dog began to bark

.

When the dogs begin to bark

Then that's the time to leave the town

For the game is up and the gang plank down,

They're marching up and they're sailing round

To make another burial ground

And the earth will drain away young blood

Then the dogs again will bark.

He sang about 'The Veteran'

And a dog began to bark.

He sang about 'The Veteran'

And a dog began to bark

And dogs will bark

Till we reach a land

Where no dogs bark,

Till we reach a land

Where no dogs bark,

Till we reach a land

Where no dogs bark.

LOSING MY MAGIC SUNSETS

I'm losing my magic sunsets

When I leave you

But I'm exchanging for the dawn.

For a long time we've sat and watched the Sun go down,

Watched from orange fire glow to purple shade,

A long time, for a long time when the Sun was on the rim

Of our horizon.

I'm losing my magic sunsets

When I leave you

But I'm exchanging for the dawn.

We used to sing in the twilight

When all the sky burned red.

We used to stay till the last spark had fled.

Now all that's left is twilight,

No sunsets any more

And dead

The spark that made them magic.

I'm losing my magic sunsets

When I leave you

But I'm exchanging for the dawn.

Without you I'll go and seek the dawn

Round the other side,

A new morning, a new day,

Be new born and young again,

Watch the pale Sun come up and light the sky,

A cool first light that will grow to warm old bones,

A second life before I die.

I'm losing my magic sunsets

When I leave you

But I'm exchanging for the dawn.

ELEGY FOR A MARINER

The sound of the sea and the gulls is ended.

No more the crash of wave on shore,

The soaring, circling, plaintive cry,

The sigh of the wind in the sail,

The sudden beat of wing near mast,

The rigging is empty and there is a drifting

Without masthead light, in the darkest,

Moonless night. The Marie Celeste was

Less empty than we are now,

No hand on the tiller in this ship of life

That has to plough on through storm

And tempest without the best navigator

In our fleet. The deep ocean has

Called him home, no more to roam

With us from port to port.

He has found his final harbour unsought;

He has gone ashore for the last time

Away from the strand and now lies,

Like any landlubber, claiming

His six foot of firm earth,

A dry dock for a ship never to be repaired,

Never to sail again and the only sound

The ghost of a wind whistling in the shrouds.

SILENT LOVE

There is no loneliness like silent love;

Love that may not declare itself;

Love that cannot bear itself;

Love that dare not.

There is no loneliness like silent love;

Love that churns the stomach's pit;

To love and never speak of it;

To love within and smile without

When all you want to do is shout it out

But should you shout away she'd fly,

A blue angel way out in the sky.

No use to cry after her;

No use to cry, no use to cry

And yet you die within,

Feel like turning to the wall,

Alone and derelict.

There is no loneliness

Like silent love.

MUSIC

Music is the mother's hand that salves the hurt,

The fluid filler of the shattered mind

Burst from love unkind.

Music is the mellow peace between

The owl's screech, the foxed pheasant's cry.

It is the strong arm clawing the floating soul

Back to the green river bank when,

Swept away with loves tears,

It is about to die.

Music is the angels wing lifting

The wounded lover from fatal fall,

The strong draught to save the sick.

Music is the sunlight shining

When the day breaks bleak.

Music is my love's voice

That starts the pain

In which I have no choice

But cry for the music

Which is the mother's hand

That salves the hurt.

RIVER AT RUSWARP

Lap, slap, slapping against the bow,

Rowing downstream against the wind,

Alder and ash, willow, the gentle spalsh

Of the oars, a green river, a grey sky,

Fish rising to the fly, punctuated by

The sigh of distant traffic.

Here I let my mind drift, this summer afternoon,

A place of memories, of many loves in many years

Silent, a place of solemn tears, now

A place I'll never see with you, forever

Flown away. As the Sun breaks through

A little of the blue reflects these thoughts of you

In this green place where space is confined,

Banked in, flanked but seeming flows forever.

Yet I return still, looking for lost life

In the dark pools of timeless water.

ALNMOUTH REVISITED

This is an estuary that runs between the sandbanks at low tide,

The bobbing boats hide under the summer sun,

Seem unwilling to face the sparkling sea.

On the hill, a solitary Cross looks down on dunes

From where the Village Church once stood asking a question,

"What good was masonry to save the Christian God's

Haven from the Pagan Sea God's wrath?"

Far out, on the Island, the Lighthouse winks its warning

As the fog of evening drifts in to thicken for the morning

When those who rise frantic, before the sun has burned it away,

Flounder to find their way at dawn.

And, as for me, I am, at this moment, all three:

At sea yet unwilling to face the sea, under a pagan spell

Possessed and adrift in a fog where evening and dawn

Have mingled and been blown apart by gentle winds

That, like tides, wash away the drifting sands

Flowing down the estuary of life to the sea,

Piped longingly home by the oyster catcher's plaintive call,

Longing for what cannot be, after all, as time grinds all to sand.

AN OLD MAN'S PRAYER

I am not thinking of death,

Simply legs, bottoms and breasts.

Perhaps this is no way to prepare

To meet my Maker.

Call me a dirty old man if you like

But at least I appreciate His work.

I never did shrink in my duty

To admire his best so why

Can't I slip into oblivion

With Woman as a final vision

To carry with me on the journey.

Some say you carry your own

Heaven with you as you go.

Pray for me that it is so

That I may die as I have lived

Loving to my very loins and soul

God's greatest creation.

ORANGE CAT

The orange cat sat on the wall

In the warm summer sun, everyday, all day

Waiting for the birds to come

But, with soft fur and loud purr,

It only dreamed of feathers and fun,

Never stirring long enough to do more

Than nothing at all, except sleep.

But then one day a loud "Cheep!" by its jowl

Caused it to open one eye and spy

A creature with wings and beak.

" What a cheek!" was the first thought

That entered the orange cat's fuzzy mind

But this cat, of all cats, was not unkind,

Fantasy was one thing, action another

Really it preferred to gather flowers in Spring

And listen to the birds sing than do anything

Like head and de-wing them.

So, it uttered a loud sigh

Hoping the bird would see its folly and fly

But the bird hopped on to the head

Of the orange cat and started to pull out hair

Before launching itself into the air

With a bright lining for its nest.

The orange cat sat up, sat down

And resumed its rest on the wall

In the summer sun, purring with zest

And after all the dreams that were stories

And the stories that were dreams

Made for a pleasant peace that was best.

YOU CANNOT RUN

You cannot run when Death's cold clutch

Has torn your love away. Even the swift

Must yield, to Death, the day.

You cannot run when Death has past the post.

You that have lost all, cannot recoup your loss,

Can only stand and watch and count the cost.

There is no comfort if you run away to chase or hide

For Death is life and in life you still abide

And still must till you, in turn, are called.