There’s a new dog on the block!
She’s feisty and proud.
Slinks through alleys where she isn’t allowed.
Ignores the clock when the hands go round
passing the time of the click of the lock.
Brown wavy hair like a grizzly bear
and slow-brown eyes that don’t watch
but your every move is pre-seen.
She’ll smile and nod, grin and preen
and accept your every whim.
But then, with a wink, a blink,
a hint of a sin,
– a space where she should have been.
There, like a dark angel, she is guarding the alleys,
patrolling the park, armed with only a sock!
Some Folk never learn
If I but had the music and yet the words,
Of the lark in the morning I would have told,
And of the factory maid that laid so white.
I would dance and sing ’til day is cold
Of the bidden lady and the darkly Knight.
Stay from the moor! The bleak and cold,
From the elf and the role of Black Jack Dee.
Flay fiddle and pipe to sparkle a tear
And garland around the greenwood tree
With ribbon and braid to soften the drear.
And the Morris and clog, the wicker and hood
Of Lankin and weavers, and a grey lady ghost,
Of jockeys and ponies, the bishops, some good.
‘Bout Usher and tailors and maids that have lost
Their precious and love, their uttermost.
Think of the tail, the fairy, the will-o-the-wisp,
See the pitties, the pressgang, or the whalers wish.
If you but had the music and yet the words
I would listen til the sirens curse.
The house, now gone,
was full of memories.
Now lost, it fell in a storm
of hail and light
As gods would like to smite
the sulking maid
Or the over-reaching knight.
The tumble, the dust,
filled the air with pittie.
Once settled, the ruins lay
and rested as the buddleia grew.
So Nature, proving as she slew
that random day
There was no due malevolence.
The sun, half shining,
Flicking shadows away.
Write or wrong.
If needs be I’ll try
to keep on even keel
that harrows out the troughs
though it cuts the top off happier times.
The buds, the ears.
I see the fall and rise
and watch the growth, the spread
that swathes a field of nodding heads
though I feel the scythe of older times.
The glimpse of sea.
Images awash and now
the pull of tumbled dreams
of childhood mares and nags
that trammel o’er life’s lines.
For times or divisions
that armies and might
should break or harden
into shells. A cornucopia
of deeds of shining light
that fail betwixt, between, our lives.
Standing, looking as we passed
the blur of logo flashing,
reflecting off the hardened, shadowed glass.
I turn my head to see the Nordic girl,
white faced and flaxen hair,
braided as a coronet around.
As cool as the sun on ice.
lids closed, receding from the glare.
Opposite, another beauty, black,
with dreadlock hair piled high
and subtle fusions colouring the crown.
As dark as inner hunger,
her head part forward, lids part down,
the Bible open, lost to her surround.
Reflecting on the journey
from Kings Cross to St.Pauls
I couldn’t help but wonder
at the beauty of it all.