Summer’s lease is over,
fall has settled in,
the knuckle bones of winter,
are showing through his skin

Soft falls the morning,
landing safe, on cold and somewhat soggy ground,
drops the breeze,
stills the trees, kills the sound
spreads the light, dispels a fragile finished night,
brings forth a day, still grey, who lies,
and pays his way with promises of being bright

A torrent of rain
flick end of a storm,
we danced to kitchen jazz
safe and dry and warm,
wolves came to listen
more than one or two,
circular howling
maybe they were dancing too

Winter sleeps both cold and deep,
while spring is a madcap scramble,
summer sings and jogs along,
but fall is a definite amble,
dropping hints of cooler times
with every leaf and bramble

Walk then,
touch the silent acres,
dew pond wet
with shining grass unbroken,
a day still new,
wrapped in promise newly woken,
bare feet make the morning

Dylan boy,
lord of all the sleeping towns
the valleys and the mean little houses,
master of the flowering words,
like best bitter they flowed
dark and ripe and full to the top of the glass,
well worth the waiting for you were,
if the masses couldn’t see it
then they too were blind as moles,
you finished up your pint
and left us, empty

September rain  
falling grey on Monday faces
washes out the dusty traces
of August in the air,
coffee mug memories
warm and serene,
muse on the summer it might have been

Faded linen
which smells of straw,
and a shift of corn
in the back of a drawer,
is all that is left
of the girl next door,
she stayed a while
from June to September,
and left fresh berries
to help us remember

Time is a thief of youth and love,
undoer of locks and breaker of promises,
she is the rushing wind
sweeping all before
a restless boiling sea
crashing on an unknown shore

Take a glass of August, to sip at harvest time
a vessel overflowing, with a stem of wilting vines
the final press and corking up of summers cheapest wine,
too sweet, too ripe, too seasoned, with the changing year’s decay,
overblown and blousy with the taste of yesterday

The waving wheat in Picot’s field
is burned to yellow sand,
a harvest tide of buttered rain
salutes the combine’s hand,
one last defiant gesture
before the cut and fall,
bowing at the reaper,
who comes to scythe us all

Ploughed fields and tractor churning
yarrow, nettle, stubble burning
signs of a year at summers turning
blackberry, bracken, meadow sweet
showing the season is almost complete
chiff-chaff, pipit, pecking crows
bring high summer to an early close

Fruit tree
did you never think of love,
perhaps you thought too much,
you stripped yourself of leaves to live
and gave of all you had to give,
naked and alone you tried,
so hard to stem that bitter tide
but still the darkness of you grew, inside
until you knew for certain that the war was lost
yet maybe in the doing it was somehow won
a pretty pity that you never found the sun
mellow warmth to melt the frost and make you free
to be the person you were always meant to be

Dip your poets brush in words
give me the east wind
the smell of snow beneath my feet
heavy yellow summer heat
splashing rain upon a roof
sketch me proof, or lies, or pain
draw me a sound I will not hear again
paint me a picture, for the things my eyes cannot see

Sunday papers and a sit in bed
nothing needs saying that hasn’t been said
we can read the thoughts in each other’s heads
you drink your coffee, and I sip my tea
who ever knew we could ever be
happy not speaking, just you and me

Green figs in a bowl
and a chequered cloth,
I breakfast on birdsong

Breakfast at my table
on a damp warm morning
with birds in the trees
each fluttering one a note which sings,
on high and leafy hidden wings
that beat to lift in heavy air
chained to the ground
I cannot share
their joy in endless headlong flight,
that freedom brought of skies delight
and so for now, to me it seems,
I must content myself with dreams

The rain
when it came
was not unexpected
soft at first
then larger drops
falling music
dancing puddles
ignored in a rush of passers by
I stayed to the end
and heard it all
that orchestra of sky

Take the love that dare not speak its name
reduce your thoughts to memories,
lock them deep
hide them in the silent vault that is your heart
smother the singing bird you want to be
snap its feathered neck, quick smart
smother any signs of life
poor wounded thing,
better it was never born,
if it cannot fly, then it should never be
kinder dead than never, to fledge and leave the tree
smash your heel and end it now,
for it cannot be set free

Skin needles, made from rain
threaded hope, that stitches pain
peel away the Monday morning
a coffee scented cloudy dawning,
the existential grey clad ******
of a quintessential English summer

Birds have no shape,
they are everything
and they are nothing
wind and rain and trees
the scent of the breeze
tall dried grass
seeds which land
on full and fallow ground
an ocean heart that beats within us all
the sound of nature’s call
whatever the future holds
when shadows fall
and footsteps are dust
there will be birds

Drink and love and laugh,
talk and cry and eat your fill
do as you will, but be kind
embrace the light unbending,
for we never know when life is ending

Bequeath to me sleep in your will
let me lay, all silent and unknowing
leave me this as your parting gift
for only the dead can ever know true peace
I may dream of you, and never want to wake
we can waltz together to music never-ending
a sweet sad tune we both know full and well
hold me tight, I will not fear the night
knowing you are waiting,
just as you promised, just like you said
in the candlelit ballroom
that lives in my head

The lark awakened,
she took to the sky
between the pylons
singing sweetly,
her notes were clear,
fluid and beautiful
her tune unchanged,
since the world was young
she finished her song,
and flew off to find breakfast
unaware that nobody heard
after all,
she was just a small brown bird

The sins of nightingales are always forgiven
as pardon for their music,
that sweet song which brightens the world

Peacocks should never be absolved
their cry is harsh and their beauty skin deep
they believe they do no sin at all

We close the curtains on a world less sure,
than yesterday, and all the days that went before
evening comes, and with it falls the night
unyeilding darkness drinks the light
and in its presence fades the sight
of garden gate and fence and lawn
in an anxious world which waits for dawn

****** off and get a coffee, leave me in my chair
alone to watch the waves and bones
and the fractured wind-washed water stones
a canvas canute,  imperious I command the tide,
go back I say, come forth no more,
I speak therefore you must abide
and stand astride as the rushing waters flee my hand
retreating from the scatted margin land  
they fear my wrath, and plot amongst themselves in bubbled froth
regrouped replenished forces gather forth to rush and overtake my seat
wet and bloodied but unbowed I hold my ground and kick my soaking feet
neither of us is willing to admit defeat

Barn door
swings gentle in the wind
and as it swings it sings a creaking hymn
each rusting metal part contributes something to the tune
no caustic gale has swept this sodden farmyard free of life
time has cleared this plot, severing today from times long past
those who lie in the churchyard up the valley know full well
what years have brought this building down
with windows mostly out,
battered eyelets all shot through with jagged holes
as if the house itself had lost its stocky stone built soul
crouched low, set firm against a nagging breeze
sagging ivy wags a finger in its gaping maw
that bent and twisted raw bone knuckled door
and finds its way through rotten skirting board and floor
to lift the planks and venture to the cellar dug below
toppled from beneath, by damp and rot
where pale and sickly mushroom flowers grow
fat and pink among the creeping green
a place that better days have definitely seen

Letters in the blood
a hardwired poets brain
built for words not numbers
language flows within each vein

You were always the fruit tree
new light of promised hope in spring
sweet pears within the summer of your days
the flowing wine of a full ripe season
and when autumn came
it reached with shadowed fingers
to pluck you from the wall
you stood alone against the wind
while we your living leaves were scattered
root and branch, stripped base and bare
it was then we watched you fall
there was heart in you my friend,
you gave your all

I was born with a Woolworth’s spoon in my mouth
not for me a silver stem and bowl
because my mother was a practical kind of soul
she fed us and she clothed us,
and she never forgot to love us,
then she taught us we were just as good
as the cutlery above us

Skylark falling
victim of the wind
waiting in the grain
begin and start your song
ascend across a blue and open sky
fly, as if your tiny heart would break
skim those fields of yellow grass and waving wheat
sing of all those things, which make a bird complete
soar, ignore the dark and waving ocean's roar
play in full your simple sweet and lovely tune
so loved by those of us who went before
speak skylark, use your summer voice
please stay, say you will return once more
encore

Flattened sky
ironed by night
creased by morning
beyond it the curving collar of the hills
and crows, equidistant on a wooden fence
black shiny button birds
placed to complete the landscape
time to put on the day
roll myself in the fabric of normality
and gather it tight
shaping to fit my purpose

Willow,
I will make my bed with you tonight
sleep soft and deep beneath your counterpane
no soothing water song, will ease my cares,
for I have none to ease
sing me no sweet tune,
no lullaby beneath the trees
for I am not a child,
a man full grown am I
traveller of the road,
by choice to make home
beneath a starlit sky

Pale she sleeps beneath the trees
unaware of rain
or any passing breeze
the silent girl with willow in her hair
no longer cares

Do not worry
when I go,
I will not be far
for I shall be the evening star
shining, ever near
do not fear
for I had my time
and lived it well as I knew how
but the time has come
I have to leave you now
watch the birds
see them fly
home across the evening sky
feel their wings
hear their song
you can cry,
but not for long

Silence after rain
no drip on bending leaves
no sound remains
no faint and whispered breath
nothing to be heard
except the wind
and a sweetly singing bird

The early garden
brings a deeper peace
than any I have known
no sound but wind on leaves
no neighbours barking dog,
for even he must sleep,
his daily yappings not begun
new air, fresh and clean
whispers soft among the green
a drowsy yawning background hum
a space to sip one’s tea
and taste the morning yet to come

Magpie sitting in your sorrowful tree
go find a friend, or let me be

Soft falls the light around your face
which drinks the night
and leaves no trace upon your sleeping form
as you lie curled and safe and warm
who am I to know or see
the secrets that you keep from me
we give our minds to flights of dreams
but keep them to ourselves it seems

Down along the motorway
pathos flowers grow
a tiny piece of nature
putting on a show
watch the diesel daisies
dancing in a row
among the shredded leavings
of the M1 contraflow

Gathering sky,
heavy folds of white and linen grey
wrap the day,
tight in a nettle scented breeze
a blanket with no escape
song birds call, sharp to each other
hidden in the hedgerow
where the cow grass grows
thigh high by the gate,
pierced by spears
of meadowsweet and celandine
and so we wait to look for rain
allthough the weather may turn fine
who knows which way the season blows
in British summer time

Stroll with me under the trees
to where the old road bends,
at the hanging sycamores
then walk away
beyond my sight
for I cannot follow
do not turn back,
you have many miles to go
and new companions to meet
I will wait here, in the shade
tired feet need to rest
visit me now and again
when the leaves fall
but only in memory
walk on

Waking early
breathing full the yellow summer air
to drink the quiet and take it to my bones
just me alone, with all the trees and calling birds
no other sound was ever heard, except the breeze
that rushing soulful little tease
who stirs the streams and shakes the grass
where hungry warming rabbits pass
to scratch and stretch and start their day
with hymns of questing honey bees
that drone above the meadow flowers,
and work away the dawning hours

Falling light on springtime leaves
shadowed fingers stroke the breeze
sunlit table, awning up
proper tea in a china cup
supper cooking down the road
a neighbours grass efficiently mowed
cat on a cushion flicks an ear
rock doves calling somewhere near
new clad branches swing and sway
peace at the end of a busy day

Irish aer
brings the sweetest rain
from the bluest sky
which fills her streams
of brackish runs and rills
and paints the green
on lush and fond remembered hills

Spring you called, how kind
I see you’ve settled your wandering mind
you brought a leaf for every tree
and flowers for every buzzing bee
sit a while we’ll have some tea
I made a cake so I hope you’ll stay
if not, can you visit another day

My old cat
asleep in the sun
he knows his summer
is almost done

Bring me no roses,
or sad white lilies
chant me no dirge,
or quiet tunes of deep respect
this is not remembrance
for it was never how I lived
or ever wanted to be
instead, bury me in colour
asters for my winding sheet
yes, daisies for my shroud
a stars and wonders funeral
and sing me out, real loud

Poetry is not spaghetti
you cannot herd, strings of complicated words
and hurl them at the page, one by one
to see if they stick, when the poem is done