1.
A certain stasis of shapeless days
backlit a little by obscure sport
leave a lot of room
for double-edged thought

2.
I’ve bought two mandolins
one cut my fingers
the other cast them too fat,
what’s up with that?

1.

I started in the shadow of one of God’s many houses,
fat plums on common ground offered themselves,
taut, bruise-purple skin still pristine
for maybe two, three more weeks

Walking on, a burst fig signaled
something
fresh green torn
scandalously showing fleshy insides
that should be kept private
for lovers, gourmands, gluttons

All the while, intermittently,
the straight line train drones by,
keeping Presbyterian hold
on passing passengers
who through unopened windows
cannot smell, hear or taste the divine

All the while the crickets sang of being

2.

All the while the crickets scored my steps
until ahead, nettle and dog rose conversations
conspired to thwart this man’s,
any man’s,
attempts to walk straight and true

A detour took me from the soft lost chaos of grasses
to tight lawns, hard front doors,
dark-ish satanic mills making wheat biscuits
and the ever sad chorus of a million tyres

Nearing home, a young rabbit’s boldness held
until too close, melted away

in the managed parkland
dragonfly truths called, m’ ducks
dragonfly truths called

One side obscene in ignorance,
the other sanctimonious
to emetic effect

In the mid ground we most of us sit
whiplashed necks crying
as each rabid side bays allegiance

shut up, breathe clear air
drink tea
read
be fair

Leaf litter sheep ****
verdant verges
flowers that smell foreign but aren’t
wet earth telling truth
moves to concrete and tarmac
who lie often
and heat is turned to memory
steps from animal tracks to animals tracked
have tumble drier breeze
mocking those prior flowers
**** smoked appreciatively
to thank the peace
as if laws don’t exist
and the lick of car exhaust
to recall poison
and then home

Green cathedral bells
are felt more than heard
though some tolls chime audible
to stomach depths
heart breadths
last breaths

I currently sleep in episodes,
brief sojourns into late night sub-genres
too niche for deep sleep prime time
starring washed up dream tropes
like public ****** and teeth falling out

I still find flickers of truth
but a mind mindlessly clicking through channels
provides no water cooler moments
for the therapist and I

As local as shoe leather,
though laced a little differently
I still feel the pull of aul boody,
aul boy,
a voice of ancient things

this impossible centre of England
with the flow of Plantagenet
of Watling
of Nene and Welland
where nothing happens
but everything has

rich in silver willow
and tannery stink
still giving cause to think,
to feel Clare’s fears
as the inexorable tarmac is laid
and each day passed
as the hedged wren and dunnock
begin to explain
green and pleasant pains