lone figure on a beach, just before Christmas

you stoop, 
feeling the cold in your knees.
you are old.
you may not have many winters left.
you are examining something,
something far older than you are.

you peer at it
turning it over
in your hand
in your mind
still for a minute
unmoved by the wind.

your gaze shifts
you’re not looking at it anymore
you’re looking through it,
through all the stones on this beach,
through the centre of the Earth
and out the other side into nothing
clawing back memories breeding memories
as if by picking up one stone
you’ve revealed another
then another
a whole beach of associations
stretching back to the beginning of time.

you face the sea, 
and now throw
as far as it will go.

you’ve turned away
before it lands
with a tiny crown of salt-water.

Aldeburgh Lookout - Poem II

the sea is the same
and yet
never the same
for to give it just one name
puts to shame
its depth of being
and insults our seeing
and does no honour to the being of sea.

today it champs at the bit
white horses straining at reins
rushing up the beach
seeking shingle.
townsfolk keep their young indoors,
shops shut up early.

now daylight fails
until the only band of light
between the black of beach
and unlit night
is the row upon row of mashing teeth
and the spit of the sleepless waves. 

Aldeburgh Lookout - Poem I

a box of one’s own
by the sea
knows but three sounds:

the breathing of the waves,
the gnash of pebbles
and the far-off cry of a gull,
lost in the fog.

insignificance

I sit and watch the moon set
and I swear I can hear the Earth spin
until both sun and moon are gone from the sky
and nothing lights our path
bar a thousand floating sparks:
a giant’s lit a match
and we’re living on one speck in millions
all falling together
toward the dusty floor.

by the Arun

the wind across wide-open skies
reveals itself only in the nudging of clouds
the tousling of an unkempt field
or by sketching shapes
on an otherwise lazy river.

today it starts downstream
and brings me gifts, unasked for:
steam off my tea;
a lone duck’s quack;
tiny leaves, spinning like ice dancers
or a jumper, sans parachute,
spiralling Earthwards.

outside my front door

debris covers the streets,
as if the autumn moon had shot off silent fireworks,
and not swept up.

woodsmoke

it could’ve been any other seat
in any other carriage
on any other line
but I didn’t know that when I sat down.

through underground grime
and blackened newspapers
came quickfire mental pictures
of the ends of long summer days
on the wasteland behind the old garage
of old Mr Smith, a silhouette shepherd
a father, at least to the fire
to which we floated like moths.

as the book in my lap lay open
so too lay the box of memories, strewn,
turning words into smoke and carrying them
up, into my nose as I breathed deep my childhood.

now, you’d say smoke is smoke
but smoke is never just smoke
smoke is wood or weed
or snuffed candles
or anything else gone out
or burned up
none of it without fire
and none of that without a spark
and who then lit the stars?
and which idiot sent them spinning off into space like that
for humans to wander under and wonder over
and shoot up their own little surrogate stars
off crackling autumn branches
and dry-wood pallets
and anything else going out
or burning up
like I guess, we all will
and one day there was no fire
to dance around and
Mr Smith didn’t come out to light the stars
and they built flats on the wasteland
and the next station is Archway
and I’m getting off like I’m waking up
from a dream I’m not ready to leave
but I guess what’s gone is gone
and the train is gone
and the smell is gone
and Mr Smith is gone 

and I’m...well, I’m still here.

headlines

pulp all the papers
then unplug the damn TV,
it's the only way you'll make new year
with any sanity.

a duck in the moonlight

ripple
trickle
feather
wrinkle

the
be all
and
end all
of
to be
or not to be

ripple
shimmer
paddle
figure
wave
borrow
give
wallow

lap
and overlap
merge
and disappear

though one is one
and one is the other
each separately are neither.
they seem happy that way.

bob
tuck
slosh
duck.

Saturn approved

The crane
hung in the sky,
as if someone had gone up
to finish painting the moon.

cranespotting

eight ungainly waders
line the mud on the Thames;
dip, sip, peck, rise up,
raising life out of dirt.

built just this morning,
their single-strand legs
plucked from a haystack,
their inkpen beaks
dipped once, twice,
then raised to the heavens
to colour the sky.

CT 160-A

rainwatching

When the storm cracked wide open
and the rain broke from the sky
dark figures lined window panes
as the street watched it fall.
glittering in the lamplight glow
pattering on the parched pavement
it awakened that dry-leaf odour from the soil

while all the while above
the clouds waged angry war with the sky. 

on night's gift

tendrils pick at my consciousness
sleep beckons
a roaring sea to drag me under
whirlpools suck and crash spray

yet to bed down now
is to give up hope on the moon’s ticket – so,
battle your better nature for better art
guide the pen on its inky trail

but the angels’ choir is audible.
and sleep beckons
beckons.

Bankside

I caught the smell of the river today
nigh on lost in the big smoke of the city –
like birdsong over a motorway's roar.

on inevitability

the sun is at my window
as you were,
there but never mine.

steeple people

I watch men at work
against endless blue heaven
perched high up on a steeple.

and I wonder how it is
that God's own home,
needs upkeep from these people.

Thameside

if I shut my eyes,
this water sounds like the sea
and I could be at the beach,
building sandcastles
and jumping waves -
instead of sitting here,
watching the river
sloshing its banks,
hoping you'll call.

City Cinquains - London

London
from my window
ahead, the giant sleeps
a promise fresh upon the breeze
daybreak.

London
lunch in the park
young romance fills the air
the sun warms moods as Big Ben chimes
midday.

London
streetfuls of life
lights twinkling, neon glows
pints are pulled, ice chinks in glasses
nightfall.

City Cinquains - Paris

Endless
the splendid halls
from sculptures to Vermeer. 
I stroll amongst this history,
barefoot.

Summer
along the Seine
musical magicians.
Wine in hand, I sit and drink in
the dusk.

Pinpricks
lie sprawled ahead
like a quilt made of stars
from the Sacré Cœur I behold
Paris.