Poetry

The Cherry Tree

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Raw sky, thin grass, a naked cherry bough
Foretell the blossom that I hope to see –
Another springtime of this dying tree
Whose untold fruits have dropped where I stand now.

The Fox

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My soul is a fox with a hen in its maw
And the tingle of blood in its tooth and its claw

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Hearses

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Like regrets drifting through consciousness,
They glide through the streets of our cities,
Untouchably themselves,
Silently intent on their purpose,
Counting eternities with each corner they turn.

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Window on the World

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I am making a window on the world,
A stained-glass window through which to look at things.
It is very much my own creation,

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Wound

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Take a butcher’s red by Goya
And an arctic blue by El Greco.
Gently fold in an agonised beige by Grunewald

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St. Francis in the Slaughter-House

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He left his sparrows waiting at the door
And entered like a draught, his bare feet treading

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Studio

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Always the same old silence
And the same old,
Always different,
Northern light.

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Tuesday Poem: Old Timer

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You see me now as what I have become again:
Chromework like mercury

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Tuesday Poem: There can be few things…

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There
Can
Be
Few
Things

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Tuesday Poem: Thoughts of a Bicycle

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Of course I am only a machine
And full of natural frailty.
My tyres go soft,
My chain drops off,
My brake blocks wear out

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