Friday, 4 September 2015

first autumn chill
Lombardy poplar tops
brush the slate skies

Thursday, 3 September 2015

overcast path
a young jackdaw prises
shreds of lettuce

Wednesday, 2 September 2015

bank holiday
the hawthorn hedgerow
drenched by steel-rod rain

Tuesday, 1 September 2015

rosebay willowherb
the pink sunset dips right down
into the city

Monday, 31 August 2015

the blue tractor
leading the traffic
summer's end

Sunday, 30 August 2015

gritstone edge:
all the sheep within
an oak's shadow

Thursday, 27 August 2015

The Fall

The man in a Sex Instructor - First Lesson Free black-t-shirt
stomps like a despot across the pebble beach, can of Export 
nuzzling his lips, this bunting-festooned August afternoon 
sandwiched between three nights and days of constant rain;
then heads off the prom to a mid-terrace mid-Victorian flat,
the cracked facade of which he monkeys up like Spider-Man.

That's the very point in time when the four of us pass by,
more nonplussed than alarmed by his bellowing vaguely 
over our heads, and the bang behind us due to him flailing
down from the second floor, only just missing the railing.
He chortles like it's perfectly natural, which we can't belie
when every one of us reboots the locomotion of his falling.

Wednesday, 26 August 2015

downland gales
the town and the sea
smothered by rain-mist

Tuesday, 25 August 2015

green waves
darken the groyne...
sea kale

Monday, 24 August 2015

anglers' rods
off the end of the pier

Sunday, 23 August 2015

sultry night
I dream of blackberries
just out of reach

Friday, 21 August 2015

Postcards to Port

Lahore, wasn't it, where you sent your first 
postcard from? Wherever, whenever, all
we knew was it was wholly lost on you.
We'd've profited so very much more.

What did you go there for anyway? Some
old hogwash about 'working your passage'
on a tanker sailing from Rotterdam
for scrapping at the beach yard where big ships

go to die. Then a card came from Assam:
you'd swallowed too much, too spicy, too soon;
laid-up for weeks on a Himalayan 
foothills tea-plantation with time to think

between fevers. Why am I not surprised
that you went on to hire two rugby 
teams'-worth of Sherpas to bear you up to
the summit of Everest umpteen times?

Regale us now with news of your climbs.

Thursday, 20 August 2015

Sands End dusk:
somebody's book shelves
crammed at all angles

Wednesday, 19 August 2015

by the slow brook
every balsam slipper
filled by a bee