Monday, 2 May 2016

mussel-blue skies . . .
the cherry blossom bright
by the brick wall

Sunday, 1 May 2016

a hairpin bend dips 
to Damflask reservoir—
the smell of pigs

Monday, 25 April 2016

for weeks now
the paired-up grebes have plied 
this same stretch
where the bridge's brickwork
has turned a grey shade of brown

Sunday, 24 April 2016

At Papercourt

Two hundred men dig far and deep and wide, 
embedding bricks from Oatlands in the bottom and sides
while recycling its better timber for lock after lock, 
and adding, in just two years, nine miles of new direction 
to the wayward Wey, until their third spring of graft,

when the eight-blade stitchwort clusters on the banks,
meadow-edge alders explode with titmouse giddiness 
and the young gentleman paces a broad enough berth
around nesting swans where, this dandelion day, 
an orange-tip pootles as the slow-running waters meet,

at Papercourt, to make his father's navigation complete.

Saturday, 23 April 2016

spring's bumper crop
in Dad's old vegetable patch:
forget-me-nots

Sunday, 17 April 2016

Touchstone Awards 2015

I'm delighted to receive an honourable mention for my collection, The Lammas Lands, in the Haiku Foundation's Touchstone 'Distinguished Book Awards' for 2015, alongside fine company.
sun-hazed stone pine . . .
the boatmen change into
red-and-gold livery

Monday, 11 April 2016

a bike-bell's ting . . .
the fishmonger offers
Brighton brill

Sunday, 10 April 2016

around the headstone
of one who died at twenty:
wind-puffed primroses

Saturday, 9 April 2016

The List

She shows me the death notice
she's cut from The Times
of the man who was her boss
in the early 'Fifties; tells me how

she asked him on the Monday
if he'd enjoyed his swim
when he sank in the Boat Race,
and how she played practical jokes

upon him without any rancour;
and now he's died, aged eighty-six,
another acquaintance gone
from her dwindling list.

Monday, 4 April 2016

rain like stair-rods
tips through a midge cloud
the tear of ducks

Saturday, 2 April 2016

beech wood
the nippy bounce of rabbits
off the bridleway

Wednesday, 30 March 2016

The Jays

within the Discovery tree
can only be glimpsed by and by
by such Norfolkian souls who
habitually lift up their eyes
above the tallest head-height through
which Dutch weavers’ brick gables rise;

where—in this bless├Ęd instance—two
jays blend in, like excellent spies,
in blossom that’s actually snow—
without a need to scream or fly;
spring having sprung any old how
upon a pungent northerly:

the freckle-faced clouds fast forward
at this time of day: two odd shoes,
absorbing scents of applewood,
hunker down with a stash of booze:
Dad clears his throat because he should,
’cause he’s always in on the ruse.

Monday, 28 March 2016

below the keep
daffodils nod along
with the storm's tail