Four years on

We made it
But the sun ain’t shining

We made it
But the mercury ain’t climbing

We made it
But skies suffer grey

We made it
But dark echoes stay

We made it
Whilst losses trail long
Yearning yearning yearning
Heart’s new song

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1 June

sitting, watching countless bees
whirring in weeds
five starred purple heralds
stretching to the morning’s sun
promising, reaching summer
bells chiming June

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At the hairdresser

She sits in the plastic black cape
Pale in heart, eyes full
Knowing with hopeless hope

Stares deeply into the mercury
Through to soul’s netherworld
Where beauty runs deeper than dye
Into every line of wonderment and woe
Tracing her face, empty with Disappointment but still quick with yearning
Full with love she does not utter

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On the bus

There are people who think their bags need their own seat.

They’re mistaken and I’d quite like to stamp on their feet.

The worst breed are those who sit by the aisle

With their bag in the place by the window meanwhile;

These are the most selfish of the seat-hogging bunch

And the ones who I’d most like to punch.

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puffin

Do puffins like muffins
Or would they rather eat nuffin?

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a moment

It’s been a while…
and I’m back on the bench
in search of time
early summer days trickling
like water through my hands and
thoughts lifting heaven-wards…
day turns tide to evening
but still there are
snasphots of light-filled blankness
bright beyond words for
sunlight, nothing but sunlight
luminosity soon to dip beyond sight…
just here, stealing moments
in memory’s fading tapestry…
last summer watching you drift away
lost in precious sultry days…
a dog rose tumbles tomb-tangled
weaving back into the hawthorn
of childhood where hours
were lost and found with ease
in a more generous time…
today the silvered rock rose,
the faint smell of mown grass
cradling old bones…
would I tread lightly on this earth

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A Right Royal Wedding

Dear Kate and Wills, if I was you, I’d skip all the fandago and the fuss;
Pop the rings in your pocket, hop on the number 19 bus;
Head down to the Kings’ Road Registry Office
(Sparing our rather empty public coffers).
There’d be no faffing about with a silly veil
(and David Cameron could lounge at home in his tails)
You could stuff the dignitaries and tedious nuptial natter
For a splendid time with those you love and who really matter.

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