Sunday, 31 August 2014

Doorway To The Garden

Photo: Su Joy

We walk over the forest.
I tell you about fragments of books.
Authors, titles long forgotten.
I can’t trace them no more.
Gone forever. Like dreams.
But they still let me into secret worlds.
I build my own stories around them.
Scenes within scenes.
Doorways into the garden.

Saturday, 30 August 2014

Red Admirals/Memories of Glastonbury

The first of the Beaujolais was in
but I was experimenting with green ginger wine.

Epic histories, cosmic journeys

arrived in brown parcel paper. Recordings of Django Reinhardt...

We agreed to meet on a Saturday.

His car was a little white Datsun.

He wore a Harris tweed jacket and a wrist watch that he had found on a golf course in Essex. Jeans, white trainers and a baby blue sweatshirt.

Glastonbury was a good mix he said. People got on with their lives. A working town. He went there to do his laundry.

We climbed The Tor. I was conscious of his breathing as we traversed the hill.

Strange shapes in the landscape. Green rills.
Sheep and apple trees.

An aeroplane that put me in mind of a Lancaster bomber
skimmed St. Michael's tower.

The ground shook. I could see the pilot's eyes.


A piece of Welsh slate in an incense scented mystic shop.
Purveyors of fine Gothic goods.

Rain and smoke light rising.
Banks of cloud.

A lifetime later a long dead butterfly clings on in the dusk.
Others join in and attach themselves to the wall. Life leaves their wings.
Red and white eventually turns mollusc black.

They wait. Shrivelled and dead.

But I'm not sure if they've realised.

The growl of thunder.

(Quick! Unplug the television. Turn the mirrors to the walls...)


Wings, dry dust,
bodies, hollow husks


The Rifleman's Arms.
Alcoholics in leather,
blacksmith beards.

Time leaps forward.

A bass note catches my imagination.
A refrain that goes 'looking inside...'

In the morning, of another decade but still only a day or two later
I wake with a square of Avalon sky framed above my bed. 


Thursday, 28 August 2014

The Sure Shot

Photo: Alfred Joy

He's the tallest kid in town.
He must be close on seven foot.

Think his body must have been shaped with an angle-grinder.
Has a smile that wouldn't look out of place in a tooth-paste advert.
Easy going, gangling movements. A life that's never,
even when bad things happen, been taken too seriously
because everything, in the end, always falls into place.

Work and money?

Never a problem.

While most of us have kept our noses to the grindstone,
he always managed to wrangle himself onto a jet plane once or twice a year.

Trips to places we can only read about or see on TV.

He had height, naturally ability on his side.
He could make a game of it!
Toy with his opponents
as a cat paws a dying mouse.

But the weather keeps changing.

Too much wind, lately,
too much rain.

Tuesday, 26 August 2014

Shadow The Mango

Sunday’s gravy boat’s not sailing


let’s for a moment imagine,
imagine that we have the power
to set it moving,
floating on its way again

through orange blossom, I think
on a background of dark blue

phials of murky water
of river mist.

Maybe now we are able
to face up
to some old truths

they sound like a new music
where the morning’s thoughts
the mango scented sun.

Saturday, 23 August 2014

In The End Row Cottage

Carpet-less stairs in the end row cottage,
a silver crutch with sinister
blue-grey plastic attachments

key holes make midnight eights

there should be something of the field here
if only one straw


an amber resin
in a black-stoppered bottle

dab it
on leather

somewhere, upstairs
a clay pipe
still being smoked

Morlock Oil

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The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

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