NIGHTFALL

 The worst is when
There is no sun;
The wind is up,
The sky is down.
The pressure of
The grey brings
Headaches and bad
Temper till the
Rain breaks us both;
We storm, we cool.
The worst is when
The light inside
Makes outside
Seem more dark.


FREE VERSE POEM
Killer Cross-wind

 The killer cross-wind waits
For me around corners,
Trying to find a weak
Spot in my balance as

I race down-hill at night
On my Raleigh to the
Sea. Conspiring with the
Dampness, it aids Autumn

Leaves to move as one,
Folding over the road.
When I am unsteady,
Each sodden leaf will join

It’s dead brothers to cloak
Rattling drains, hide holes with
Whispered prayers, carpet
Glass and hawthorn daggers,

Form a skid-pad round tight
Corners; throw their bodies
Under tyres -
Sycamore suffragettes

Die rubberized on black
Tarmac, oozing dead, red
Chlorophyll. I rattle
Like a diamond-back through

Conder Green; over the
Inlet bridge past Glasson
Dock, lit by a cold moon.
Thatched cottage on my right,

Gold tower cross the Bay,
And Autumn’s dead brain cells,
Corpses of a brilliant
Spring, are everywhere and
Have only one last thought.



BUDAPEST METRO

 I wish I had more compassion or courage
But beggers frighten me; not just
Their dirty raggedness, or the mirage

Of their thankfulness, or the biblical
Poses they strike - making it hard for me to give.
They re not even comical,

So I feel cruel and hard of heart.
Aware of my revulsion
And obvious fear, I start

To walk faster, past the tired old ladies I see these days
Propped against the subway walls, keeping
Poverty at bay selling faded bouquets.


MICHAEL ON THE BEACH

 Listen to this. I recorded it today
Near the Stone Jetty, past the Midland Hotel.
I stood there an hour and only moved away
Because the tide was coming in. Can you tell

The difference between the ebb and the flow?
It doesn’t sound like the sea at all;
More like rocks rattling in a hollow,
Water down a plug-hole, or the drawl

And growl of a hungry dog. Then
There is the clanking, clunking rythmn
Followed by its inhaled breath when
The sea runs back. It’s like a hymn

Without a chorus, all beat, out of synch;
Nothing like the perfect sea of sound effects
On radio or TV. Some pools look clear enough to drink.
This was taped across from Happy Mount Park. One expects

The sea to always sound the same, to be consistent
But every pebble, rock and shell or tiny grain of sand
Conspires to blend a salty symphony that is insistent
On playing itself all day like a Promenade Band

Even if no-one is listening,
Improvising wave by wave.
This is my feet crunching the shingle, the seaweed bristling.
Oh, here it reminds me of a stave

I’ve half forgotten...Close your eyes and listen, listen...
Sounds like the world draining away,
Then spat back complaining. Moisten
Your lips and taste the spray. We’ll go back some day.


ROOM

 In this darkness I hear many things,
The soft, lost flutter of a broken wing
Will brush my ear with its damaged tip
Paint night-song gloss along each lip

Before it drifts to the shadowy wall
Where it dreams on a wallpaper castle tall
And the murmering velvet whispers its name
Through the draught of a broken window frame.

In this darkness which is complete
I lay under white cotton covers, so neat,
Their purity hidden by daylights death
Their coolness warmed by another’s breath,

And a cool hidden hand spans cotton and skin
To embrace what is dreaming in the dark within
The boundaries of a bed, in a room which dissolves
In this close deep darkness where a dream revolves

And reveals something secret, something, we forget what,
But it does not matter if we know or not
For its tale is swallowed in this blind non-space
Which extends to infinity to touch your face.


TESS AND THE HANGMAN

 Princess, lovely Princess,
Let me touch your silken hair
Or the damask down
Of your fair cheek

Or your tiny little finger. I’m less
Than the flea; oh, if you’d but care
And would but smile, not frown
And if you’d only speak

I’m sure I’d die of happiness.
I’ll follow you forever; where
You go - to the village, the town -
Is heaven to me. I squeak

And whine, humble at the hem of your dress.
On my knees; I’ll love you ever, I swear,
My heart, my bride, the rampant seeds you’ve sown
Have made this solid earth child weak.

Princess, darling, sweet kind loving Tess,
Embrace me, hold me, tell me I am dear;
Let down your hair and slip aside your gown;
Dear Tess, your flesh has made my old rope creak.


TWO MAGPIES ON THE MOTORWAY

 Jay-walking the fast lane
For a road-kill in the rush-hour,
Two magpies match the wagons,
Blur for blur, with wing-power,

Dodging each wheel case,
Each soft rubber re-mould,
With a hop, skip and stumble
On oiled asphalt, fresh-rolled

And marked out in parallels;
Black tar, white lines, curve
Towards infinity. It smells
Like a factory.
To watch the swerve

Of a Jaguar in the fast lane
Is almost poetry. Two magpies play
Chicken; drive drivers insane,
As they pluck without delay

The tasty morsel that's been spread
For their repast. Eat and run
Is their motto, or you're dead;
Torn, squashed, baked in the sun.

TWO MAGPIES (3rd version)

 Two magpies in an orangery
Sheltering from the rain,
They sit quietly
And refrain

From their usual cacophony
All is black and white
To them, or white and black occasionally;
Like pieces of the day and night

They sit, eyes twinkling mischievously,
Stretching each wing a little, revealing
The band of blue, and heavily
Flicking their tails, shimmering

Darkly with an emerald light
The rain will never put to flight.


BUDAPEST WINTER

 The snow was a relief to the eye at first.
Everything was purified and chilled
But now the city’s dirtier than ever and we’re cursed
And defiled by slush that’s spilled

And splashed and churned over our ankles
And into our shoes; an urban swamp.
Cars create a tidal wave of mud. It rankles
Our tempers as we wade cautiously, then stomp

Those damp, wet cold stumps back to life.
Wellingtons. I wish I had wellington boots.
Frozen slush simply adds to our strife -
A brown scummy skating rink. Like coots

We stagger from kerb to bus,
Praying for Spring to save us.

POEM ...WINTER ‘93

 I sent him out in silence
Silence wrapped in dumbness
The brainchild of a poet
Is a senseless paradox

But I cannot break the silence
Till the child is born and speaks
So he’s petrified with numbness
And I’m bound and gagged in ink.

I swell with barren pregnancy
I sit and bulge and think,
He is like an obstetrition mystefied;

Oh I waited many months
But he never did deliver
So unchristened, my bonny brainchild died.

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