Time’s victimAn abraded headlandJutting into the desert voidExposed to the elements –Sun bleachedWind scarredSand blasted-Lashed by acid rain. Striated, stratified sandstoneHarder layers overlying softFriable rock disintegratingLeaving fragile shadowed fins. Winter’s ice freezes in the cracksExpanding the jointsForcing off the rockThin layers peeled away. Peach-stoned exfoliating face cream does the sameTo aged facesWeathered, crinkled, lined,Facing the …
I was working in the garden when I saw him again todayI turned and there he wasBut so different from before –Then he seemed well fed, proud, disdainfulIgnored me as he trotted purposefully towards his lairWith a thick pelt of rufous winter fur. But now he was shockingly ragged, wasting, fur moulting, mangeyThin hindquarters exposed …
I was a pilgrim searchingfor myself. Instead I discovered a pure white scallop shellin a limpid rock poolradiant in its beautyKing of its poolshimmering, glowing from the shallow bottom. I peered closeThrough the pellucid water. A self-assured but unassuming bivalve –Fan-shaped, splayedRadiated, ridged,Dominating its pool. A confident statement. This pretty scalloped shell, in a far …
Like Michelangelo’s ‘Prisoners’The poem resides withinThe stone of my mindJust waiting to be releasedBy hand, a pen, a keyboard, chisel and hammer. I’m a carver, in words, in poetryRemoving unneccessary stuffThe question is: have I removed enough? The central core is ultimately revealedRough at first then finished and polished – nothing concealed. Some work is …
It is a crisp winter’s dayGloomy-grey with a chill wind, snow is falling.The dark iron-strapped church doorBeckons me inWith the inexorable pullOf a black hole in the white space of snow. A visitor’s book lies on the tableNear the doorPages damp, yellowed and curledTwo cheap broken biros lie next to itAs though a school child …
Black head, white breast, green- blue glossy back feathersobservant intelligent eyeactive in all weatherspied piper, court jester – the magpie. Always the centre of attentionbringing everything into contentionone for sorrow, joy with two –but is this old wive’s tale true? Magpie Alley off Fleet Streethistorical centre of printin trying to keep the typeface neatthe printer …
You are asked to assembleYour little son’s Christmas toy.You try to control your trembleAnd remember when you were a boy. The instruction leaflet says it allIf you read it well you can’t go wrongThis battery here, that wire thereScrew this tight, insert that prong. Press it all together (mind that little part)Push the button – …
I see the grains of time sink inexorably through the hole, taking me with them, legs and feelers scrabbling desperately, trying to get a grip on the smooth glass sides of oblivion. But as I fall onto the sharp cone below I realise it is not the end. The Glass is not a scheming trap …
The Hero dons his helmet and steps forthinto the sun and dustTo do battle, as he must. His lady has buckled and armed himWith a mace, a sword and dagger,Equipped him also with a shieldHis armour shining, gleaming. He knows he is a HeroAnd has to do a hero’s jobHis lady and her family have …
Dust is there from the very beginning. Stones cut from the quarry, shipped overseas, ferried upriver, unloaded and carried to the site, worked in the workshop. The masons hammer and chisel, carving to detail. Dust flies off, stone chips fall to the ground. Masons’ set square, plumb lines, compasses and dividers. The vaulting cathedral rises. …