Marching into April

The year is in its adolescence

It is trying its body on for size

But not yet used to its long legs

And sex and looks

Awkward when it walks and feels

Awkward when the full formed daffodils

Suggest a cheeky bit of summer before dinner

; –  )


There is hope, there is memory

But there is no knowing what will be

Beyond this time of promise, heavy with buds that

May or may not

 Bear fruit, depending on whether

Frost sweeps Autumn’s sweets or thunder

Brightens all souls to glinting parodies of Paradise

: –  )

Probe for space

We live in times of science fact not science fiction.

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?

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]