Midnight chorus

Awake on the city’s lines
Birds sing karaoke, out of time

To Night’s electric dirty
Diesel dittied backing beats,

Dawn turns up unannounced,
And turns up the original track,

Instantly everything syncs back
Into perfect harmony, as usual.

In his tale of two cities Dickens said ‘The day came coldly, like a dead face out of the sky’

What is there to fill this grey day?

Is there someone for whom

It is not grey, is there someone

Who switches on the lights with

Every blink? Is there a place

In this grey city where life flows

Strong and people are enjoying

Their work and loving themselves

And seeing light in every eye even

Though the sun’s switched off?

Tending Towards Generosity

Why do we sow and water a patch

We do not own? Is it because we

Know that we and Peace are jeopardised

If our sunflower seeds are left to grow smug

Beside barren pods who cannot

See the sun, blinded by jealousy and

Deranged by the thirst that comes

From sharing Earth with thicker

Roots than theirs can ever be?


In tending to what is not ours, Nature does

Not credit us with generosity, She understands

How truly selfish are her fans,

To share the water, Earth and Sun

Is not Love but preservation of a self

That needs the nourishment that

Giving gives the giver to feed the

Craving for that gratitude and Love

That fills us when we have enough to eat but

Goes lactic as we grow hungry, keen to steal

And fence what we once gave and scattered.


Don’t let pain

Take the pain away

Take it down to the

High ground up ahead

To a place where it

Can breathe and exhale

Out the ache, the

Trapped strain that

Congests the brain and

Turn that clot of blackness,

Redundant coal to prism-like

Beauty like a pyramid,

Newly carved and decked

In adamite to brilliant the

Sun-strong beams that

Radiate sight.


Please take it away, shaft

It through this day to scratch

The surface of the next dawn

With a clean mark that says

Today is new and so are you,

Pain free- falling  blissfully in

 Light on a sirocco billow

Cushioned as you drop from

Branch to branch and bounce

Around with each new song.

Now it is waning

The pain in the feet

The sweat in the head

The crowd are dispersing

After relentless applause

In the sinus’ crammed stalls.

Making their way through

The limbs, women trailing behind,

Queuing under the Ladies sign

Written in tear duct pink

While the men go full surge

Ahead, keen to be first out,

At the nail-gates cold blue

Iron, into the night to hail

A cab home.

How to tell him?

How to tell him

I’m not going to

Age well? I’m

Aging now, in the

Night, in the dark

These hands, these

Feet are swelling

And wrinkling. These

Warts are growing

These ears and nose

And eyes are growing

Into eternity till

They no longer hear

Or  see or feel like

They used to to

Him or me.

How to tell him that

My face, decaying,

Is still my own, although

It looks different,

Misshapen somehow,

Compared to Yesterday’s,

When the sun beamed down

In its Vitamin D and

He looked through

My eyes and into

My soul with

Blind desire, giving in

To me

Yesterday I felt

Him charge me

Up  – Electrolysis

In my veins, an

Electrical murmur

Through my limbs

But not my own.

Today that buzz

Is gone, the current

Lingers but grows

Weak until crash,

Boom, none.

Alone again, in

My midnight well.

Time drips slow

Again and my

Head drops, held

Between my elbows,

On my knees

Feet throb hot

On the cold floor,

Hands grown cold

And sweaty, jaw

And teeth creak

On rusting hinges

And Youth seems

Lost to the Light

High up,


A Morning, Late November


 Rod of silver

Wand struck

Soft on my head

Of thoughts laced

With sweet, dripping

Nectar beads

Sweet, dripping

Nectar drop.

The Sun shines

Nourishment on

Me on the bedclothes

And my day dawns

Thick, cool, clear

And tinged with

Autumn, crusts

Of the year, left to crumble, crunch

And pile their juices into compost

Fodder for the Spring.

I rise to meet

These orange-browns,

Lights dangling,

Lights drifting, drunken

Twirling through

The gusts,

Traffic wardens flick them off.

(26th November 2009)

A Day in the Year of an Ox

Yoke heavy

Nostrils singeing

In the Sun,

Glistening with fresh

Snotty sweat,

Black with deep flesh.


Track trodden, soft

And stodgy, bouldered

Thickly, sticky stoned.

Stoic foam it drips

And slips from tongue

To lip and lower,

Down, the rim of hairy

Fur, the hoary jaw,

The bull’s sound-

Piece, it grunts.


Loud it feels that

It  could groan but

No, its eyes are down

And grooves

Cut fissures in

The soul as soil

Is churned and


And churned.


[6th October]