Oh happy Sunday hour
after five and before the tea-time tide
when those who filled the beach
with grubby toddlers, toys and spades
return to roasting hotbox cars
and stow the cool-bag in the boot,
along with salty dogs who want to sleep
creeping under blankets kept especially for them,
farewell they wave,
with lollypop sticky, sun-touched infant hands
a tired last goodbye to the sand
that battlefield land of dug-outs holes and hollows
a ruined castle landscape
that the sea will fix tomorrow

Life is a heavy hat,
we wear it, and we learn to bear it,
as we age the debris grows,
bright chapeau that once was trimmed with flowers
attains a brim of ***** crows, that peck and eat our dreams,
crap filthy ropes and jump upon the battered crown
weighing down upon our ancient heads,
yet somewhere underneath the mess, we smile
warriors all, those of us who tread the long and weary miles,
for we have hope, that small and shrunken ghost
companion of our youthful days
she follows as we turn each corner
not quite the cheerful girl she used to be
but clinging on,
the wraith of expectation

Immunity from prosecution
does not give you absolution

Blood within my skin
liver pluck and lights
appendix to beating heart,
every part, wants you
needs you to know
I am ready for us to begin,
it is only my tongue
a restless useless thing
which cannot tell you so

Poems are not toothpaste,
you cannot squeeze another from the tube at will,
bend the ends of words for one last drop,
inspiration comes in waves
and when it wants to do so, it will stop,
you cannot pick a constant crop,
there are times when the field lies fallow
hiding seeds which may or may not grow
if and when they flower
that is not for us to know,
poets feed on what they find
the harvest of a fertile mind

If I could
Then I would kiss your green and living lips with words
take the notes of garden birds and wrap myself in song
bend the trees and bid them do my written will,
caress your honeyed stones to better hear thy whispered tune,
held within my grateful arms from thatch to cobbled floor
safe inside your ancient door and mullioned charms
I need no more

Unwritten lines upon a pristine page
waiting for a hand to bid them speak,
muted wings of tawny hunting owls
swift soft and to feed a midnight beak,
a peal of screaming bells
which have no tongues to sing
is this silence, waiting to be filled
or is a nothing held within these things