Chillies like fireflies
in tunnels of polythene
the green scent of tomatoes
still on the vines.
Hunched in the driving seat,
hard rain and seen a fraction too late
road floods like black mirrors.
Cats eyes and white lines -
so many souls still abroad
long after the witching hour.
The shop next to the Electric Palace
trades in poetry and the leonine proprietor
treats me like a king, a royal customer -
in other words, he has all the time in the world
to hear and say more words, the stocks on his shelves -
some written by good friends of mine
still make a golden currency where all else fails.
Trees swish in a rough wind, the leaves
shake in soothing whispers
that shape no words and still speak sense
in one long sigh that’s as old as the hills
and cradles the dreams as you fall -
not into sleep exactly, more like
a place that just is.
A blackbird in the morning. Raucous jackdaw
and the avian shapes of grey feather clouds
narrow lanes where every bend
is a fear of a head on collision
until a straight bit relaxes the white knuckles.
Sheep in profusion - some of them spill into the lanes
where a fox hides in his dry rust -
now a space that was once fox.
The croak of a frog and an old man
just trying to find his way home
through the greenwood. Rain drops
from tree tops fall on broadleaves
and a black-eye pool where the drops
always fall in the last place you looked -
a slight tremor of the green leaf
like the after-leap of an invisible frog.