My sap simmers, leaves for fingers

Furl and unfurl, on the grass of my keyboard.

Milkless tea, Japanese; in delicate bitterness

I wait for the lights to say ‘go’.

My eyes focused, unfocused, focused

Seek out the emergency signs,

The routes out of here

Drawn to Love

Waiting for you is like

Waiting for paint to dry:

I am child told ‘Don’t Touch!’

All finger itch to be inked in your forbidden colours.

On the canvas of you, I practice this art of love

Sketch conversations, responses pencilled in fine lines

Light as a lovers touch.

You shiver me into an expressionism of want.

I falter.            Friend.

Can we blur into a different definition

Or is my hope condemned

Locked in these safe, blank, single sheets?

And you

Framed in another country

What Led Lucille to the bar in Toledo

It was spring ‘77

I should’ve been in heaven,

Everything in nature was new                                                                                           

But this is country and western

So even the best of them

Find me out here on my knees.                                                                                            

I got four hungry children

And I done cropped me to build them

With my mountain man out in the field.                                                                           

He’s got a crop that’s a coming

And that keeps him running

But I gotta have me fulfilled.                                                                                             

So I’m in a bar in Toledo

With a man that I don’t know

Just drinking and cussing away                                                                                         

I wonder if this is liberation

That the women of this nation

Have been calling out for, for so long?                                                                             

With the power of a high thigh

An arched back and a bosom sigh

My transient beauty truck stopped                                                                                     

There was violence in my love-makin’:

In truth I was shaking

I didn’t know yet what there was                                                                                         

Cos I’m hungry for laughter

And here ever after

I’m after whatever another life brings


Yes I’m hungry for laughter

And here ever after

I’m after whatever another life brings.                                                                              

(inspired by Kenny Rogers number one hit ‘Lucille’ 17/06/77)

Day Trip


She is a day-tripper.
A rainbow kind of girl
sketched in gel pen
ink that smells like strawberry souffle
and shimmers when you tilt the page. 

She is a one-way ticket.
Out of the shop where
she buys herself blue dresses
two sizes too large
so the hem trails behind her like a princess or a queen.

She took him half the way there.
Left him to find his own way back
from a muddy farm road in the middle of Kent,
and felt only like blue shifting
into indigo and violet and back to red.

Till Death Parted Them

They lived, loving

Easy like the first day

Of summer holidays.

The rippled promise

Of a numberless season.                                                                                                                

She danced.  Extravagance.

He clapped out the beat

By the record player

Foot tapping.  Lips stained

Blue red: Royal blood.                                                                                                          

They lived, loving.

Shouting their complaints

To shift the wax that builds

Quotidian. Burning through

To an instant coffee shared.                                                                                               

Silken Sundays, burbled Archers,

Soothing steam of the smoothing iron.

She at the stove, stirring the gravy;

He, slipping his arm around her waist,

Kissed her neck


Sun breasts exhaled sky,

Dark falls back; slipped stars explode

New budded blossoms.

Soundtracked – Dear Nano…[edited]

Serenaded by you, my forgotten self

Thrills; you minister tunes once more.

This, after a year on pause.


A scratched autumn.  Songs from fields

Ill-fitted the bauble and sparkle. January echoed

Hollowed home.  Sold.  Nisi.  Absolute.


Marching out of the battery job,

The welcomed space between tracks

Shuffled into hospital waiting rooms. 


All tested.  Only Mum

Diagnosed. Then

The unsequelled breath in July.


But now, you break into me.  A smile from one

Secretly loved.  I awake, rested;

Dance dawn into a shower of sound.

Wifi EQ [edited]

Openzone heart

Roams unbidden, hidden

Within this portable shell/

Scanning radio frequencies

Sensing connections

Divining signal strength/

Hotspot heart

High mpbs for downloads

Device auto enabled; no esc/

We sit in separate rooms

Invisible air crackles

A white noise/

My dark heart finds comfort

in the semi-shut down of


Finding the Plot [edited]

There’s this piece of scragland I’ve been awarded

From which I’ve been hiding:

I want to grow my own poems.

I dream in a bed of seeded potato words

That cluster majestically in the wormy dark

And when cooked, taste fresh, earthy.

This land is new, purveyed rather than allotted.

We are guerrilla in our gardening – at least my neighbours are –

Their plots reveal a succession of delicious views;

Sheila holds five canes of stanzas – an epic display

And just last week Elaine & Tony introduced chickens

Daily laying whole chapters of story.

But my mind is a tangle of grasses and bramble;

A pot of lavender and some heathers huddle

At the kitchen door, awaiting transplantation.

I’d like to espalier an apple to fruit me to the core of ideas -

Crunching through the skin of thought to its very flesh,

Sweet and white, like the page.

The air above shatters into a hundred full stops

Then reforms, an arrowhead in the sky

Chittering – south, south, south. I

Action.  First, clearance and double digging.

Then, thin seedling tea, gulped greedily

For fat juicy growth.

I sow small quantities, 1cm deep

Every two weeks for a steady supply of feedback.

As winter approaches, I’m told

I should simply turn the earth,

The frost will break it up.