Thursday, 31 March 2011

Mother's Day

A sequestered love of actions;
in edifying tastebuds on Sundays
with roasts braised, and roasters praised
and crackling smacking crunching ways;

to greyscale threaded oldies passing
the past into the quiet afternoon, punching
past the wall of silence with gunshots banging
from the Wild Wild West to sauntering present;

and frozen meals on wheels steeling
my stomach on my nightly shift of working,
ever-sure my cupboards are never-bare;
this my lifetime – of care ever-present and there,

in this; from childhood to now, each breath,
sought from womb to grave she gave and gives,
through altruistic acts she lives
for others’ sake, deserving nothing but the best

of a son’s love, and in words, paper-born,
I remember and will remember forevermore.

Sunday, 27 March 2011

Dark Matter

Between your mass and mine
                                                          space bends
              pulls our galaxies into each other

              dark matters
in the oceanic space on the curve
somewhere over the
                                      tides of Atlantic
                              as we near.
                                                      And soon

our light will dim,
                                 soon it will vanish,
                                  as I watch,
a light too far away to reach our points
the constants of birth death
dialling ever
                        to its face of general theory,

relatively, we are bound to
and bound to come

but two galaxies coming into one will brighten,
a billion suns like a billion butterflies,
worlds of you, worlds of me,
a new orbit
                      of new constellations
a-breath with temporary nova-light.

                                                                       And life,
for life’s bright sake
                                      in our evolved state;
our speck of introverted Universe
that will die as all others,
                                                  but shine and shine in life.

Friday, 11 March 2011


Here, the hourglass neck contracts the airport arrivals,
around, the glass of bubbles sheen from LCD screens,
bodies of sand stare at landing times then stare
at the bottled-doors that swing with sand-surges;

behind, glints of glass again, the duty free
gleams for the falling crystals; their sunrise to walk
from and into searching arms, glazed eyes
googling faces, finding foreign fissures

they instantly discard, until four arms outspread
lock, four puzzle-prongs inter-fixing, atomic
blending of all their positivity; tears and smiles
arising from the deadpan names held

by chauffeurs, static from their monotony of this,
business-suited, tightly-tied, an immovable circumference
on the cascades of trolleys and feet and shy
pecking lips; more aggressive is the extrovert

– and then me, impatiently rocking, nonchalantly pocketed
hands sweating, a chemical of time burning within,
what future could now begin,
as the hourglass turns and my world turns upside down.

Thursday, 10 March 2011

Caerhys Farm B & B

Twin lights arc over the driveway
as we scale their path, swinging right
and stopping before the building, parked
in front of grass, and that in front of sea

an invisible saltiness,
a power greater than its mass out there, lulled,

we are pulled towards the porch, lit

met with smiles and shown through a familial museum
to our room, our board and bed and en-suite set,
Caerhys farm, in twin solitude now,
loses its anonymity;

walls are galleries of ancestry,
a harvest sun and a field reaped,
all things blowing in black and freeze,
and sepia of pre-extended homes,

examples glazed with due farm-sweat
of a history of living this life.

Chairs seating toys, the children
grown perhaps, the earmarks of play
are scuffs of timeless aggressions and cuddles.

Digressions of growing up with a doorstep-beach
catch my guard, off the gently sloping hill
and down this momentary rolls,

and back to bed and board,
                                                      near April,
hard to see through love’s thick veil
the newness of other things;

a kind of television set where cobwebs melt,
a dresser and bedside shelves,
curtains that must be drawn,
a bed to me unmade.

On Walkabout

carries my imagination on its spine,
on walkabout; JMV you dined
on experience, a patron then the chef,
your words cooking melodies even the deaf
would taste, the blind see,
this miasmatic outback, colours weaved
underfoot and overhead; trees of paradise
and the birds in boughs, bowing to sunrise
ascending like the koala in the final section,
her infant crying out through separation
by the innocence of the nudist children,
sweeping free through your land of eden,
apart from Housman’s farms and spires,
what blue remembered hills inspire.

Wednesday, 9 March 2011

Bones and Tombstones

A curious romance of puriant form, some
purile insediment of lust that massed
our storm over flattened moss, heathen
bracken and needles of pine, caught finely
in the hair of my neck.

Victorian graves our bedside sentinels,
the earth and a blanket our co-conspirators
of heat in the cooling darkness.

It was kisses in the dimness,
not pitch in the fade of clouds too
thin to block the moon, too
thick for stars;

it was skin on air, and warming the grateful
wind that sometimes blew, but never
blew too hard or soft;

it was fingers combing sin
from hair, bare hands burying
it in the ground with the conifer as our

and hands under shirts
like succubus entrails on wandering

and the earth working with us,
its steady mattress, unstrung,
just whispering ground and you looking

and bones becoming flesh as blood
roamed through veins,
flesh becoming more than an
incidental science, a true
transcendence amongst those flaccid

and it was loving you,
looking up at the curtains drawn
against the sky,
the rain in our eyes,
a curious romance of firsts.