We stopped and stared – young and old,
city shark and office cleaner,
the sensitive and the usually oblivious –
each hoping we might fix this small
and broken fearful bundle
hopping madly through the crowds,
its frailty and incompleteness
drawing out our wishes
for a healing or the serendipitous.We walked on by – rich and poor,
business sort and volunteer,
the parent and the usually compassionate –
each hoping to forget the tall
but broken fearful bundle
huddled in the doorway,
his frailty and incompleteness
authored by a sad misfortune
or, uncomfortably, by chance and us.
poems
Poem: January
January
I dislike you, January, with your
Mornings veiled in wet mist and your
Sodden fields that have stolen
The cracked and frozen earth that should
Lie in frost under crisp, blue skies.I resent you, January, with your
Mornings steeped in damp gloom and your
Dragging hours that will bury
The well-intended hopes of New Year’s
Revels in bleak and cloying days.I disown you, January, with your
Mornings lost in sad thought and your
Hungering for Summer’s laze –
And my feint of a single, red-stemmed glass
Filled with evening’s bold ambition.
Poem: A Dead Bird On A Coastal Footpath
It seems that some of you liked my New Year’s Day poem, so here’s another. January is always a gloomy month and it’s good to look ahead to the warmer months of Spring and Summer and this poem was written whilst walking one of my favourite coastal footpaths. It’s not particularly well-crafted, but for me at least it is evocative of the place (Cornwall) and warmer days.
A Dead Bird On A Coastal Footpath
The songstress lies with her
garland of flies,
her mouth pressed to dirt,
her coppered breast still,
still like the Sheep’s-bit
that mourns her passing.
A glass eye gazes at
the gilded skies,
where arias were sung,
where she used to dance,
dance on the apron
of her topaz stage.
She could only dream
the sweetest verses,
dying as we passed,
dying with her songs,
songs we’ve forgotten
of dusk and berries.
Fragments and Reflections 