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Poem: Ghosts Of The Past.

Ghosts Of The Past. . . To still see the vestiges Of a once complete orchard In the odd lonely apple tree Amongst all of the new-build . .

Poem: In That Place.

In That Place. . . Those who have gone before, We will eventually see again In a land beyond the linits Of all that is not in dreams . .

Poem: Black Cloud.

Black Cloud. . . How, on such a fine day, Full of every good feeling, Can I sit down upon A luckily available seat And feel suddenly bereft. I ponder the possibility That I have entered The bluest of memories That someone else was thinking As they sat here before me. . .

Poem: Do You Take.

Do You Take. . . I have technicolour days Like the best offerings of George Cukor Back in the days of MGM. There is one coming soon Deep in the wilds of Cornwall Where, hopefully, the sun will shine As light reflects on turquoise waters And long dried rose petals Will colour processional air. . […]

Poem: Clear View Mirror.

Clear View Mirror. . . He has been dead for many years, She has  understood too late. No-one told her the results of her actions But mainly it seemed that she never listened. She is really listening now But there is no-one speaking. . .

Poem: That Fucking Woodpecker.

That Fucking Woodpecker. . . That fucking woodpecker Lives up our lane That fucking woodpecker Gives me a pain Thank fuck that woodpecker’s Stopped raising cain Oh fuck, that woodpecker’s Started again . .

Poem:Those Particular Days.

Those Particular days. . . Some days it just just happens, Sometimes your sweater Is on the right way Sometimes it is inside out. All you can actually hope Is that on the days it goes awry You are wearing something With a very good designer label. . .

Poem: Dance With Me.

Dance With Me. . . Sitting alone on the patio Sipping a glass of wine ‘Til a black and white cat Appeared on the wall, Keeping the beat with his tail Like a dapper Fred Astaire. . .

Poem: Coda.

Coda. . . How strange it is To be leaving you. How hard to accept That our play has closed To poor reviews And lack of interest. I never thought to go, But I hear the door Swinging closed behind me With a final solid thunk. . . . .

Poem: Jackaroo Days.

Jackaroo Days. . . We lay in poppy fields Watched by idle, spotted cattle. Roaming the range of our imagination And finding it good. . .