The fourth collection

Published in 2021

Midnight flowers: poems

beginning

a simple song
original vagabond
Marchant
child
Annie-Ellen
father
reborn
what am I?
Edge of the world

living

elements
morning
bluebell wood
Kiteland
2nd Kite………..
sentinel
pigeon
murmurings?
cottage
moment
wood
snow

where and why

Buda
Lesvos
Oslo
Oie Voaldyn
Old High Street
signing up
black
Trump’s world
Christmas poem

feeling

to Barbara
memories
lost love
sun and moon
never say no
poem of the lost and the damned
dream
C
presence
sad eyes
yoga

ending

and did the muse die
Kate
city streets
plague
planetary blues
Arundel tomb
winter’s day
ferryman
to sleep
nothing
echo

Annie-Ellen

I woke with my grandmother

in my eyes,

a hundred years ago to the day

she died

Annie -Ellen gone at thirty seven

in a final paroxysm

of fever

and green-flecked phlegm.

I woke and tried to catch her

in my mind,

mill-worker, mother of five

wife to Harry, servant to none,

standing fiery-eyed

in a faded photograph,

all crinoline and lace

and dress starched black,

staring defiantly

across the years,

before the trenches took the best

and the bloody flu killed the rest

a lifetime or two before

I could have known her.

I woke that morning and dreamed

of her, at the loom,

churning out the cloth,

putting out the washing, fag in hand

polishing the step, a sprog upon the hip

doing her bit, while her man

was away at war,

leaving her to fend for them all,

old before her time.

I woke to the sound of rain

and wondered if that was how it was

that day

when death came tapping

at her door

just after my father was born,

that day

a body in a hospital bed

a white-draped coffin

in the line

a little family round the grave

broken in the tide

I woke this morning and thought

of patterns and symmetry

in this time of fear

and wished you were here

to hug me like a grandmum would

to tell me your tales

and fill me with hope

but you are long-time dead

and your death is the only thread

by which I can hold you

on this day.

Reborn

Rows of granite black

Christian cross, fading heart.

A strange array of dying flower,

Plastic pot, rambler rose,

Trees arching high above

The starkness of the dull red brick

Softened now, harshness gone,

Sepia seeping into the black and white

That made this place so desolate.

And you, still lying there

Beneath the slab, beneath the words

I once wrote, in another life.

The one who bore me,

The one who gently tapped

Her growing, the swelling that was me,

Whispered words of tenderness,

Soothed the body flexing in the darkness,

Shared her secrets, when all was quiet.

The one who loved me

The one who thrust me screaming

Cowl-faced into the world

The one who dressed my wounds

Held me tight in the middle of the night

The one who cherished all I did,

Laughed with the friends, listened

To the music’s driving beat

The one who saw me through the sorrow,

Smoked and drank until the early hour

The one I lost, within the madness

The one I have striven for

Beneath the loon-faced travesty

The one I miss

Lying here

Beneath the sweeping branch

On a day when the thunder broke

And the sun came out.

Marchant

So many people

clustered round, all

caring, so concerned

here, in this space

of arching beams

beneath the ancient trees.

So many people

gathered within

the sanctity of the hall,

chattering, eyes flickering, all

tea and cake, oh so convivial,

while a mind, trapped

within its cage,

longs to break free

and leap from this stage

where it has been brought,

watched and watcher

in the turning of a page.

young faces, mother too,

restless, stroking, coaxing

the shattered frame, all

twined together, a rope

to bind, to comfort, to pray

to somehow preserve the hope

that he will somehow grasp the day

and transcend the demons

dancing deep within.

A performance this, a recital

of groans and moans and cries,

inner yearnings, eternal pain,

lion on the savannah

death throes on the plain,

a young man, crippled by the palsy,

here to protest, to demand

an audience for his poetry

a listening to his soul,

the beauty of his words

reaching, red fingered,

from limb to limb,

calling the sky and the moon

to dream his dream.

And all the while, the trees

reach and tower,

time-old guardians, swaying

slowly in the wind,

their strength, their whispered call,

all that he would choose,

if he could, when after all

is done, he

is at last reborn

strong and free.

The Murmuring

A flicker of wing

over the dyke stretching

arid in

the dank, dark moorland

waste

A flicker of feather

ghosting silent above

the sleeping marsh

beyond the trees

reach

A soft-breaking cloud

forming like black snow

on the horizon’s glow

then bank

and swoop

and effortlessly glide

A myriad

cascading, spiraling

waves rising, ebbing

crash on the beach

each bubble

a bird in the flow

shafting like arrows

into the welcoming reed

At one

with its fellows

At one

in the dance of life

Great shoals pour

This way, that

beneath the brooding Tor

a flight

driven before

the predatory night

and all the while

Spitfires, and Hurricanes

dive and spin

before the spectators gazing

from the ever darkening

lane

A river of sound

floods the moving ground

grain broadcast

on the new-turned furrough

then settle to earth

blackened in the turning

of the wing

under the sunset hue

of gold and white

and cerulean blue

A rustle

A whisper

A sigh

At the winter due

Wood

Funnel web of branches

Tunnel their earthy brownness

As we step, beyond the style,

Into Wood;

And muse at the spirits,

Caught in the getting to know,

Stumbling over latticed root

And banks of fallen leaf

Crisp to the boot tread

Crunching in the shuffle

As the sky flirts

Mischievously , grey

But with a glimmer

In its frost-rimmed eye.

Bluebells grow here,

When the sun returns,

But the wood is full

Of their murmurings,

Memories of different days,

And lighter feet

Dancing in the sunlit haze,

And we wander on,

Lost in our diverging dream

Combined in the chatter,

Free of care,

Full of distracted wonderment

At the earth laid bare,

Here

Among the restless trees

And the endless telling

Of the tale,

And the kindling

Of a friendship.

Oie Voaldyn

Here on this wind-swept

Beach, between the jutting headlands

Beneath the castle rising gaunt

And grey, the breeze rises

The banners furling, red

Three-legged; and the mood shifts

Within the rank, among the waiting

Crowd of bird-beaked, death-masked,

Helmeted and be-feathered spinners

Of tale and fire. The torches

Light and flame, the drums

Begin to beat, the feet shuffle

Then stride, intent and meaningful

Across the drying sand, towards

The watching eyes, the resplendent

Shards of dying sun. The horns

Bellow and blow, ancient memories

Rekindled, of hordes

And time-held ritual.

Winter is on the march,

Swaying to the beat, eyes fixed

Behind the ice-white Queen of the night,

They come, nearer, growing tall

In the darkness, shadows of a fading day,

And then the ring

Filled with expectant face and burning pyre

A stage on which to meet the light

The flowing robes and colours bright

Of Summer, born anew, here

On the sand-sifted beach of Peel

And battle is fought,

Champion to champion,

Throng to throng.

Swords arcing, falling, glittering

In the sparks of iron,

Until the day is won

And night is banished

Into the depths once more,

And the carnival begins

Of dance and joy and burgeoning

Life, beneath the fireworks climbing high

And splintering across the star-filled sky,

And all is one, dark and light,

Lost in the embrace, the chuckling grip

Of friendship, of laughter,

Of harmony.

Beltane has arrived, the summer

Has come, pregnant and full

Of hope, driving back the fears,

A future born again, re-awoken

In this old, eternal rite.

Memories

And in the darkness, bursts

A fragile shard of light

A sound, a memory of the dance

We danced

So long ago

Faces of smiling hearts, tunes

Of wonderment and hope

And I remember you, who sang

Of unicorns and milk and honey

And painted a rainbow in my soul

When all around was gloom,

was sorrow

Days of sunshine, evenings of mirth

Innocence before the storm

Laughter in the breeze, and dreams

That hung on the bead of the dawn

Days that we felt would last

For evermore, until the end of time,

As we wandered singing through the streets

In our technicoloured coats and shoeless feet

But the pictures slowly burned

Before our fading eye, our dimming heart,

And only now

do I remember you

Once again

And hang upon the lilting of your soaring voice

Dim but faintly glowing echo of distant past

A candle in the darkening sky

As the faceless sirens whisper

Why?

C

And there you sit
Opposite
In all ways, coffee cup in hand
Eyes as wide as the lakes
Half smile curving the lip
Like it always did
Chatter about this and that
Opposite
This daughter did this
The other that
And all I really want
To know
Is where the time
In between then and now
Has gone.
Amid the tap tap of crockery
And the warmly
Convivial chatter
I look for clues
In the words unsaid
In the looks not given -
Were you ever mine
Did we ever bind
Our love together
Is there something
Still smouldering within
Or is it simply the immolation
Of my dream -
We laugh, for a moment
Rising above the waters,
Lapping at the table
Catch each other's eye
Turn away
Before it can mean
Anything
Return to the islands
Of magnolia conversation
And I remember you
As you were
Then
Curly haired, woman
Emerging from the folds
Intent, and soft, and warm
Looking for all
That I could not give
Then
As I spouted and babbled
Wild man seeking
A revolution
Not knowing who or why
He was
And the conversation drifts
Back again
A touch of the hand,
The air stills, for a moment,
We dip our feet
Into a wave come rising
From the depths
Suddenly apparent
Just as suddenly gone
And we cough
And we look at our watches
‘Got to go
Need to do some shopping
Need to be elsewhere’
And we leave
For lives we chose instead -
Do you wonder what might
Have been
Do you share the secret sounds
I harbour? -
And in parting pause
Momentarily holding
Each other
A smile of recognition
Flicking across the face
Before the cold
Of the world
Snatches us back
And sends us
Whistling down the street
Autumnal leaves
That only vaguely echo
The budding
Of their youth

A Winter’s Day

Cracked glass, cut

the wind whining, its teeth

bared in the frosty embrace

silhouettes of trees, dark melancholy,

brush the surface, as in the twilit glow

the hard-throat cawing

of the crow.

Smoke seeps, crawls

along the dampened eave,

an old man muttering beneath

the breath, filling the air

with an uncertain haze,

as windows, full of sky

of deep water blue,

gaze on, awaiting the snow,

ice forming on the branch

over puddles left abandoned

by the marching shards

of rain.

Timbers creak, windows groan

beneath the weight

catching the mood, hanging

in an empty room

as the cold creeps, remorseless

from outside in, from inside

out, draining the heart

of all but bitterness.

Words spoken, harsh

in the saying, drag their feet

across the silence,

and we stare, locked

in the mutuality of anger

and pain

and listen to the wind

whistling through our dreams,

with regret

again.

Echo

And when I am gone, come

Dance with me across

The dew-moist leaves

Of the early morning hedgerow,

The silken webs of the dawn, come

Walk with me beneath

The whispering copper beech

Where once I played

My boyish games, dreamt

The starry eyed dreams

Of youth, come.

I will be there

To hold your hand

In the rippling of the breeze, to stand

Beside you, in the moment

Of your need, to touch

Your cheek , your silent

Tear, a moist caress, reaching

Through the sadness

Of your sorrow,

I will be there

In the swaying grass,

The dappled light

Of the late afternoon,

And in the whispering wind

You will be not alone

But know the echo

Of my laughter.

The fourth collection Published in 2021

The fourth collection

Published in 2021