Oh I wish they

Wouldn’t sing at

Night, the birds,

When my chest

Is tight and the

Road to Day is

Spiked with dreams

That cannot be

Seen in light of bird

Noise, rogue

Dawn speech strayed

Off the sun.

Please sit quiet

On your branch

And wait, if sleep

Is too heavy for the

Light state of a

January that knows

No snow but isn’t

Spring.

Blossom is already

Breaking the tired grey,

Confused from lack

Of sleep because

Autumn forgot to turn

All the lights off and

Let the heating run all

Night.

This year we sent our first deep probe to roam the cosmos,

Hoping it’ll  nick some time coz we’ve squeezed ours into a jar

Too small to house a note to puzzle pirate aliens, besides,

 Who of we will survive to wave above the chaos and the sea?

The ear drums,

If they didn’t miss

The junction

Round about the heart.

Woken sleeps that

Wait the slide

While thunder hoods the

Pitch with

Noise that quakes the eyes.

Sorrow skims the

Bootless calm

Of knees that let shins

Tinge with

Grief that hands won’t clean.

We ring the bells for

Babies, we ring them

Then for brides and

Grooms, we ring them

Every Sunday, in politeness

To our Father, his Son and

Of course, the Holy Ghost.

Today’s bells ring and ring

And clash with the drums

And brass blowing down

The street to the pound

Of feet remembering flesh

That was blown to sand

Or mud or stone, depending

On the time, the place and

The type of luck or

 Bravery that graced

The soldier who didn’t know

The shortcut was It.

Arpeggios, majors, no

Minors – Don’t dwell

On pain, keep calm

Carry on – Don’t clock

The fuss civilians

Make about bombs.

Drums for triumph

Beating out a time of

Red and gold and

Sabre mounted on the

Field, blast through the murmur

Of stealth or chocolate bars

Mingling with Kalashnikovs

In the long-distance lorry’s bowels.

Drumming stops and the

Ducks go quack quack as

They paddle in the

Lake and the leaves

Break out in chatter

Now that they can hear

Each other better without

The dreadful stacks

Of beats that back

The boots that crack

The streets to remind

Them that another year

Has passed and more

Bodies are piled on

The old ones who died

Young. God rest their souls.

What we sowed in Spring

And saw in June, July and

August; this is the cut and

Dry, the funeral of the year

When we still have its aged

Flesh with us in the room,

Testament to the wind, the

Rain, the sun and the long

Days spent filling up with

Juice and flavour, ready for

The journey back to ground,

Earth, soil: core to core.

Compost it out the

Back without thinking

Of your feet and

The mess they’re

Making in the hall,

It can be cleaned

Later, when the leaves

Are rotting and re-

Cycling through the cool

Guts of worms, beetles

And other vaguer traces

Of evolution.

He throws his hands

Up like as if

Painting a self portrait

For her to judge.

She blows him bubbles

From lips that have hugged

Many forks full of

Cheesy spaghetti

Flattered with pepper.

The talk is of

Chatter the chat

Is of less but

The eyes watch

It all wise in

Quiet waiting

For later to

Be laid bare.

The legs relax with

The wine the young knees

Find a nice place

To play while the feet

Discover the other

Side and pretend each

Touch is accidental.

Above the table

The first valve

Of chilli splits,

Veins feel heat

Burst bubbles

Paint curdled –

Two gives up and

Fizzes as one-

They leave,

She forgets

To pay the

Umbrella

But he pulls

Out his fingers

And they depart

Bound in hand.

2.

Apart, the light

Was glorious.

Beach-ball-bats glistened.

Together, it was

Different.

The bench was their

Stage and all the rest

Scenery.

3

 She was there in the night

She was with him in the day

Through thought’s dry vapour

She shone bright dew while

Wet in the rain she waited

At the traffic lights

Filling time with him.

4

He was the deep and

Gentle rise and fall,

What’s that he said? That

Thudding like the ebb in

 Warm deep water,

Refuge for the frenzied waves.

She was a tree-like place

Of rest and love, the

Deep shade to shelter in

 and heal  blisters with

 her leaf-balm touch.

But it twisted into something

Rough and cut in squares,

Something he had seen in

Other people’s wives and

She had felt as her roots rotted

In the dark, something neither he

Or she could see but both

Knew was there, the fruit had soured

In the heat .

Part 5

Later, recovering,

She thanked him for holding her and

Kissing her hair’s grease,

Finding the eyes she’d dropped ,

Washing them Clean

With Salt love,

The best kind:

Rock

Part 6

 She found herself

Asking him

How his day

Went.

He liked how she

Bathed his stories

 In warm water

Before bedtime.

She liked his way

Of being the

Full stop to end

A long day.

Together their

Effort made a kind

Of prose, as yet

Without a plot.

No spotlight                                             

To make the

Dark Wicked,

Their bulbs stand

Up naked to

The whole room.

Back track,fast forward

Or repeat or skip or cycle

Through,however you choose

To beat,keep,kill,waste

Save or use it, Time will

Creep off when you thought

You’d sewn it on properly,

This time,it will fall down

The grates in the gutter under

Leaves for someone else to

Retrieve as they walk past,

Someone else to pocket, a

Bit of luck, a bit of extra

Glinting between them

And a coin for a split second,

No nostalgia,just a penny

Someone else dropped

Their hand flew out of

Pocket to feel a

Vacant spot where a

Button taking ten

Minutes to sew on and a

Minute to buy, once was.

Never lost and the

Coin is always dropping

The hand is flying

And the soul is stopping

In its split seconds as

We realise that the

Truths of time are

Erratic as the soul and

Times that by infinity.