Tuesday, 14 February 2017

We Used To Store Sunlight

Patchwork overcoat of amber
waits for gust.
Hark back to the days when
we used to store sunlight.

after the laughter of summer,
when our green architecture
supported flowery pedestals.

We used to store sunlight
From green to brown to black to light, and back; we will return.

Juicy to dry willow trails.
Cracked midribs.
Mellow to the core,
the freeze.

What was vert, grün
turns to

We will show you the passage of time (loud)
Rest in peace, dear chlorophyll (quiet)
Our russet wreaths lie in
Pembrey Woods, with fellow garlands.

We used to store sunlight
Richly veined pipelines
of original solar panels.
Memories of snap.
Snaps of gold.


Protection and fun
We make hedgehog duvets.
Snails' hover-boards.

We used to store sunlight.

Grain Equation

Grain found by
Nomadic hunter gatherer
who imagines in cranuim
potential mirror lens
which enlarges grain
(not brain)
best way to disintegrate…..???
Bang with shaped granite in bowl...
Feel silkiness of powder with rough hands.

Hunt for H Two Hoo,
wishing well,
located northwest of largest hut near oak tree
drops of clear liquidity
fusion of grain and H Two Ho
Fire from rubbed sticks
Potential gastronomic innovation
homosapiens en masse…

Bread is born.

The Shire For Men Who Understand

Wordsworth once said that the chimes of Trinity’s Great Court Tower in The Shire For Men Who Understand were both male and female. A brass hourly notification that life was mortal. Ding. People in the town couldn’t escape the chimes, dong, no matter what they were doing, ding, thinking, dong, laying logs on the fire, ding, channelling ideas, dong, falling in love, ding, choosing a drink….

Larry raised an eyebrow, nodded and laughed, but nobody else was at the table. He shot his arm up into the air and flapped a banknote with his long fingers. The barmaid was collecting glasses. She looked at him, then up at the money flag. They were all lined up in a military, downward gradient; the tulip shaped wineglass, with traces of rich burgundy, the colour of his velvet smoking jacket, the neighbouring half of stout, with creamy top hat, the palette cleansing water chaser, the wood scented whisky, consumed with squinted eye. His long reptilian tongue darted around the rim of his glass, like a flesh brush. Larry laughed again to himself as he relived an early conversation he had with Octavia, many years ago in the library. He watched the barmaid disappear into the alehouse as the church bells chimed seven. In exactly one hour he would be there. Or rather, one hour to decide whether or not to go.
Larry first met Octavia in the old library at St John’s. He was from next door, Trinity, the place where the daffodil man once studied (Wordsworth’s digs were above the kitchen on F staircase. It was the first piece of information that Larry sent to his parents on postcard). He thought he recognised Octavia, at first, and couldn’t work out where he had seen her before. But watching Octavia’s distinctive mannerisms, like how she gazed open mouthed when deep in thought, confirmed that Larry hadn’t met her before. He liked to sit by the bay window and stare at the statue of Newton, with his marble index of mind, voyaging strange seas of thought, alone. That’s where he went to think and dream. Away from interfering humans. He would often sit there deep in thought, reliving a long conversation, or on the cusp of a new idea. Octavia wasn’t aware of his attention, at first, anyway.
Years ago there was a race between St. John’s and Trinity to build a new clock that didn’t interfere with each other’s chimes on the hour. Trinity being Trinity, cheated, and finished their clock tower in wood (while St.John’s built theirs with stone). The terms of the deal meant that Trinity chimed the hour twice; first time for Trinity, and then, immediately afterwards, for St. John’s.
The bells chimed seven. Octavia looked in the bathroom mirror of her tiny room at Dorothy’s B&B. She touched her face; a creased map she tried to smooth out, to conceal the life that she led without Larry. What does he look like now? Will he still be mad at me? All her clothes were around the room, draped over the TV, yesterday’s damp dress over the bath, she might want to wear that one again, a stray blouse in her suitcase, clashing scarves rolled into fat cigars, a selection of beige stockings, mainly frayed at the tip by sharp toenails. Larry always said she had fine legs. She liked to wear men’s cologne, perfume being too sweet for her taste. She sprayed some onto her wrists and kissed them together. You look well, Larry. No. What if he doesn’t?! It’s so wonderful…Larry! I can’t believe it’s you….You haven’t changed much…no, too clichéd, Larry, my old friend, look at you! False. It’s me, Larry! Your Oct! (ridiculous…it’s not a Hollywood film) Larry, my Larry, no. He is not my Larry. Hell. Leave it until the time. Let our emotions talk for themselves.


The bells chimed once for Trinity and once for St.John’s.
Once for Trinity and once for St.John’s.
Once for Trinity and once for St.John’s.
Once for Trinity and once for St.John’s.
Once for Trinity and once for St.John’s.
Once for Trinity and once for St.John’s.
Once for Trinity and once for St.John’s.
Once for Trinity and once for St.John’s.
Once for Trinity and once for St.John’s.

Wednesday, 9 November 2016

Time, falling

Veined with pumpkin blood,
thin, flat palms pat
the earth.

Parlour room dusts
with evergreen feathers
for the new visitor.

Rounding up another year.
Dog whistling. 
Sheep chasing leaves
as the wind's hand
raises high
a confetti of memories,
dancing while falling.

Time, falling...

Hidden from the hand.

Take off your hat.

Monday, 26 September 2016

We Drink in Amber Bubbles

We drink in amber bubbles.
Remembering the life force you once had.
The life force you alone, extinguished.

we fill
our soul
with gifts of time.

Like George Bailey’s guardian angel
who points out
the time George saved his brother, who fell through the ice.
It made George deaf.

The time when your mother dropped the crystal glass and cried.
You swept up her tears.

The time when Mr Gower the chemist lost his son and drank. And drank.
Your watchful eye
prevented him
from mis-prescribing arsenic.
You never told a soul.

The time when you saw old Mrs Fletcher in the shop.
Counting her change. Twice.
You pretended she dropped a note on the floor.
You tapped her shoulder.
She looked back.
You never told a soul.

We drink in amber bubbles.
Your gifts of time to us.

You had a wonderful life.

Sheldon 's Theory

Don't buy me a present...
I will have to get you one back
What a waste of my precious time
I'm like Einstein
Wearing the same suit
Not as bright as I
bought several of the same design
To last a lifetime
And died unfashionable

The universe needs my time
Presents are a crime
What do I
Have to prove
With presents?
I don't like you much, anyway
Presents are just
Money recirculated
If I want anything
I purchase with care
I mean, who else really knows what I like?

Let's talk string theory
don't come near me
I do not hug

Fibonacci poem: Introvert Tongue

was too
much. I stopped
cough, sneeze, hiccup, belch (in private)
angry at my introvert tongue
Nobody listened
They made me
I made me