Friday, 31 May 2013

alongside the old electric railway: sea-breezed hollyhocks

Wednesday, 29 May 2013

twilight rain
another swift slams
into the nest

Tuesday, 28 May 2013


In the corners of our eyes: frisky horses,
unhitched from wagons along the towpath.

Of Bella and the three of us that she dangles
in turn, at any one point at least one of us

is sexting somebody as we picnic on
the buttercupped lawn that slopes down

to the river. We’re young metrosexuals
seeking the sun in an inland watering-place,

urban sophisticates bringing glamour
and elegance to your doorstep. What more

could you want? We swig from flagons;
dream of siestas in the wagons.

Harlequin waves from Hammerton’s Ferry.
If we exist, we do so to make merry.

Monday, 27 May 2013

bank holiday blues
an orange-tip crosses
the tidal river

Sunday, 26 May 2013


             Under black dirigible skies
 the pavement up Sheephouse Way
              cracks from 1967 to 2013.

               My brother says if I tread
     on a crack, the Devil will get me.
                           But how on earth

does he expect me to get to school
            without stepping on at least
                                   one or two?

                             They always run
                 south-west to north-east.
     One’s the Rio Grande. Another’s

                              Antonine’s Wall.

Saturday, 25 May 2013

cars part to make way
for the ambulance

Friday, 24 May 2013

The Beach Party

A friend of a friend of a friend, of course:
Sheena was going to give it a miss,
but she’s here after all and so am I:
her on the Smithwick’s; me on Bacardi.
It took us half an hour to find it:
from the dunes you can’t see the sudden dip
(unless you’re one of them mingers beating
the bishop at the sight of bikinis),
but then you see smoke and hear the guitar.
I’m gonna sit nearer to the fire.
Out by the Skerries, a tanker’s anchored.
By now its crew’ll be getting wankered
in the Harbour Bar. I hate sing-alongs.
Yer man Karaoke Boy always sings:
no, I don’t write the feckin’ book of love.
And no, I don’t have faith in God above.
What about ye, Big Man? Sit beside me.
D’ye fancy a slurp of my Bacardi?

Thursday, 23 May 2013

sunrayed and squashed
in brick-wall crevices:
the dead fox

Wednesday, 22 May 2013

late sun
the whooshing swifts
wheel onto our roof

Tuesday, 21 May 2013

above the tannoy
a nesting pigeon eyeballs
the through-train

Monday, 20 May 2013

On the Rookery Estate

I’m waiting for the lift so long
that I make instead for the stairs,
where three blokes in boilersuits

are folding them up like origami:
each step concertina-ing,
swim-lanes of activity;

the finials, likewise, tumbling together;
the balustrades collapsing into a knapsack,
to be carried off, I’m told,

to fill the gap between
the guildhall and its annexe
in a much more salubrious part of town.

Sunday, 19 May 2013

day's end
the florist pours vase water
into the gutter

Saturday, 18 May 2013

sound of swifts
the poet accentuates
his line-breaks

Friday, 17 May 2013

jackdaws walk the Smoke-bound tracks week's end

Thursday, 16 May 2013

backlit clouds
the curl of a worm
in the blackbird's beak

Wednesday, 15 May 2013

rain on the wind
a squirrel leaps across
the tennis court

Tuesday, 14 May 2013


In the sidelight’s shadow you say 
I’m the yellow snail 
we noticed earlier
              who’d made it halfway across the pavement.

I can’t quite see the resemblance. 

If it is me, then I’m one of the motley snails 
who’ve appeared since last night’s bucketing 
  that rattled the skylight, 
as if it were hail impelling like bingo balls;
                                      like the carnival flourish 
I catch in your warmest voice.

Monday, 13 May 2013

swaying ragwort
the millstream trickles
towards the confluence

Sunday, 12 May 2013

Cup Final day...
an engine backs into
the fire station

Here's another football-related haiku.

Saturday, 11 May 2013

a black cat steps
through wisteria

Friday, 10 May 2013

in the space between each thought the patterns of rain

Thursday, 9 May 2013

evening rain
my bus breasts
the brow of the hill

Wednesday, 8 May 2013

slowing my heartbeat
to the river's speed
a patch of comfrey

Tuesday, 7 May 2013

between film-set trailers
the morning sun surveys
a costume rail

Monday, 6 May 2013

White Dead-nettle

White as toes peeping out from sandals on the year’s first heatwave morning.

    White like the half moon’s corona against a blackening midsummer sky.

       White as a barn-swallow’s breast appearing at a fire-station’s eaves.

          White like the bells of liberty-caps popping up from a rain-drenched lawn.

             White as a roost of little egrets settling down at Michaelmas dusk.

                White like a whalebone reliquary washed ashore at winter’s end.

Saturday, 4 May 2013

where Vincent walked:
the rich, black chacks
from the wheatfield

Friday, 3 May 2013

flying ducks
the pizza delivery man
scoots through traffic

Thursday, 2 May 2013

all possible options
for the restructure—
the evening sun gets among
clumps of dead-nettle

Wednesday, 1 May 2013

high above stalls stocked
with English asparagus:
the tearing of swifts