November Tuesdays

This misty world, washed in grey,
Hangs behind the day.
It weighs our minds down to earth
Indifferent to grandeur,
Wrapped in the routine, unremarked,
Immediate, blanked by duty.
In this world, no horizons
Draw us out to dream.
Our shoulders bend, hunching on,
The chill of the Winter
Treading on our heels, relentless
In the darkening skies, rain spitting


To Autumn

Now the shadows gather round the day’s end.

The evening sun may flare defiantly

through the restless passion of the clouds

but only to radiate their black hearts.

The greenness of growth seeps away to hide

in the worm cast ochre beneath our feet,

and the storms rejoice, shrieking their pleasure.

Now the half life of pointless survival

through the heat of the year is discarded;

the vacancies of leisured hours are filled

with a vital desperation, a fight

that surfs the gales with fearful ecstasy.

Dying fruits are ripped from their sanctuary

to rot in darkness in the howling night,

and life takes the vivid colour of blood

energised by Nature’s bitter quarrels.


Do the spirits of the night

really come with gap toothed

smiles, party dresses and 4x4s?

Are they seduced from their trickery

by a Jaffa cake, mauled

by the prints of past spirits

more strictly held to their bedtime?

Do they surround themselves

with embarrassed grinning mummies?

We laugh in the face of death,

determined to outstare cruel indifference

with a dismissive chuckle.

The Deliverer of News

I was passing in the blue misty chill
Of morning, intent upon my errand,
When I glanced up and caught his eyes until,
Nods exchanged, we moved on, each in a land
Of our own making, but now with a new
Citizen. A long face; the plump softness
Of infancy forgotten as bones grew
Visible through sunken cheeks; a face less
Given to laughter, stoic, set, all speech
Silenced; he trudged his solitary way
To earn a few pounds and a place to hide
Beyond the reach of hope or memory,
Where he can sit and dream, rocked by life’s tide.


I see no path through these dark woods,

Where I am trapped, blinded by dreams.

Sun, do not shine, and tantalise –

With shafts of light, crowning the trees,

In gold; and views of distant hills

Misty and peopled with poetry.


I wrap myself in darkness, moods

Softened, curtains drawn, so sunbeams

Make no assault on my dry eyes.

Only the mild caressing breeze

For company. My dream world fills

Misty and peopled with poetry.



Yet my spirit needs other foods,

To face the world; with peopled teams

To share the pains and show how wise

And joyful truth can only freeze

When locked within a dream that thrills

Misty and peopled with poetry.

Geese across the City Night

A blank page                       a single line appears.

Cool and grey                      apart from the melee

A single bird                         flying against the cloud

In winter                                framed by the skeletons

Wind beaten                         shrouding the evening light.

These afar                              a distant call crying

A solo                                      but soon a strange chorus

Conversation?                        Perhaps though too random

Overtaken                               by sound more felt than heard

Ear beating                              muscle and sinew bent

Overhead                                  to propel the arrow

Grey to grey                              across the world’s troubles

Here unseen                              as the passion of flight

Holds the eye                            and the wind beats the ear.

And then gone                           like a train in the night

Echoing more                            in some inward room

In the soul,                                  leaving a darker grey,

Sodium pin                                 pricked; traffic rumbling;

Urgency                                       left at a safe distance.