Thursday, 30 July 2015

a squirrel bounds
through someone's gravel drive...
summertime funk

Wednesday, 29 July 2015

magenta sweet peas
the ferry's one passenger
alights on the ait

Sunday, 26 July 2015

after the bluster
takes it off into the rain:
a plane-leaf's stencil

Friday, 24 July 2015

At Teddington

Of course the unfazed greylag geese each veer
between the ice. The Thames hasn't frozen
in years. Here is where the tidal river 
begins; somewhere a bottlenose dolphin 
might head towards from saltier water.
A chestnut seller hops on the towpath: 
from his battered, black brazier, a red square 
glows like a low sun giving us its last.

Over the crystal footbridge comes a team 
of huskies hauling the sledge on which two 
furred-up, Victorian bluebloods perch: she 
tautening the reins with kid gloves; he so
upright, urging on the dogs, to their berth
in the Surrey hills: a well-tended hearth.

Monday, 20 July 2015

how my father
used to clear his throat
before speaking...
duckling follows duckling
through the duckweed

Sunday, 19 July 2015

ruined abbey:
the dark mullein's yellows
light the transept

Friday, 17 July 2015

Whitehall

Alban was renowned for unsociable hours, 
though we were all a bit like that in those days,
at the end of the '80s, when East became West
but the North stayed precisely 55 degrees north.
He'd know the answer to anything you'd ask him
as he stroked the curls of his rolling-tobacco beard,
though how he made money—apart from the brew,
the gee-gees he backed in the bookies behind Paul's
and the squidgy Afghan black he dealt on the side
was anybody's guess. The one thing he couldn't 
recall was how he fell asleep with the deep fat fryer,
full of thumb-thick homemade chips, gaily bubbling
like frogspawn, while we, two storeys above him
with no means of escape, were wholly oblivious.
It was Mervyn, in the flat below us, who hammered 
on Alban's door until he roused, and between them
they doused the flames within the very nick of time.

Thursday, 16 July 2015

Roses

You trimmed the stems 
of the bunches of roses
one reddish pink; 
the other peachy orange
so they wouldn't overwhelm 
the squat, Vermeer-blue jug.

Look what happens 
when you bring me flowers,
you said, as you kissed me 
all over; the evening breeze
caressing the architrave 
of your high-ceilinged room.
crisscrossing
the road to the river:
a chevron of swifts

Wednesday, 15 July 2015

the flourish with which
the umpire signals four...
bottlebrush in bloom

Tuesday, 14 July 2015

close afternoon...
a moorhen uses
every stepping stone

Wednesday, 1 July 2015

blanket heat
on a wisp of a wind
the smell of timber