Common Stream

Clay drinks rain from the downs
like a sponge, till it flies
beneath our sleeping village
out to a common stream.

The bed is not it’s own
it only gives.
A being that lies not in the living
but in the honour of a life well lived.

It knows,
fate travels up and down its bends
only on occasion do the inspired young
have a go;

Waves break,
shapes form and flatten,
ripples open, deepen,

It doesn't last
a current too strong,
a word too loud,
a purpose.

No melancholy here.
Fresh rain from the hills comes
for ducks to wade,
fish riggle.

Jealousy? Envy? No.
Nor hope for a new way.
Love of place,
it knew all along.

Soft sun

A soft sun hovers upon white skin  
soon to burn it of innocence.

Winter months went, untested, wilted,
now a fleshy wrinkle.

Like a bird of prey, claws bury to bone and round and up again

heat cooks the blood to boil, bubbles
rising like floating dead.

Without her knowing, the sun had murdered.
Into the shadows, it waits

Flat land

I have come from hills 
now buried in my mind.

I tread lightly
to preserve
this flat land
make peace

Fields of yellow rape
ripe with the sun.
Bunched crops sing
at a whisper

Sounds of a field,
breath upon wind,
voices whipping up
above thick hedgerow

I cross to a verge in shade
tweets peak, pitch squeezed
from a robins belly, paused
now holding height, hanging

The yellow towers don’t rest
stripping the sky’s light
for lift above the flat


when the day is

In a
sequence of old

we drift

Can I hold you,
one of your hands
just sit

My attention
not heart was

You bare no fault
all along
it was me

Green square

Black tarmac streets run
drips on a mirror.
I hear noises.
Cars breaking
guls cracking

Big city
the pause.
I am lost
not alone

There is an old church god left
or maybe it was rich people
to feel less guilty
about their money
or their thoughts

I like this
louder, satisfying quiet.
Don’t miss the field
Got a square of green here
and structures of man

White knuckle

The white bone in my knuckle stabs
through yellow skin, a leathery 
thin wafer, a winter coat 
layered from cold  

Pink, soon it will be, pink
petals and quiet dancing 
fields of golden sun
thawing me 

Fingers, soft 
to the joy of birth, the arrival 
of Birds, sun, songs.

I wait.
My sour hand holds
these days clenched before 
life opens

Xmas present

Present is the layer
Above the ache that settled 
Without my permission  
With my knowledge 

I let it be  
Like a thorn in my hair it bedded 
A rot that 

This moment 
Light and crisp and open - time 
Green and wide 

It’s not like the thoughts stop 
They come say hello  
Off again 
Don’t stick 

A self is here 
The witness to it all 
Just not batted

Inserts into 
The act of 

My Imagination plays 

The river 
Runs clear water
I see 


could be 
make no difference

A mind is plastic 
I feel 
the top of it 
against my hairline 

Soft bits  
blood, love, out 
downwards into 
my frame full of it

Like some 
rude mix of 
fright and 

Not really doing much just
lying here 

Taking a breath 
see the dark 

Out of my 

out of my skull 
the night  

Missing green spikes

Purple pops from steel 
Colours of train and rain 
Bounce blue like my swollen 
Frostbitten sausage toes 

No tree this year 
It’s all I can think about 
As the numbness travels up the carriage 
Into my leg and consciousness 

Are we too late? Being slow?
Feels like I’ve left something 
Not sure whether to go home 
For the keys 

We used to play this game 
Finding the big tree 
So big  
The boot would hang open 

I’d watch the road underneath 
The hazy white lines
Green spikes 
In my pockets and shoes

I could fit a big tree 
In this train 
Then I’d see the tracks
Going by 


In this basin 

On this ledge 

When it clears 

It could be days 
Before weather breaks 
Open space

Before the wings 
That provoke me 
Do lift

In this basin 

On this ledge 

When it clears