A few more published poems.

Dozing While it Rains.


In the half-land when sleep has crept close
but consciousness still lingers. Images scissor.
There is a sigh of hem against stocking.
A wisp of blue smoke. A hand holds a cup,
little finger crooked in tea-time elegance.
And downstairs an old man shuffles.
The cardigan is holed. Wool is worming
out of frayed edges. His pate is liver-spotted.
He bends his neck to gaze into a meagre grate.
Picks up a faded photograph and listens
to the birds circling as he remembers the noise.
Outside, reflections in a silver pavement
flutter against passing eyes.
The rain tumbles to glimmering windows
and the sleeper turns over to the rhythm of the fall.




Gypsies Passing through Tewkesbury.


Tourists’ eyes rounded as the sound of many
hoof-beats slashed the air in staccato percussion.
Seven Vardo’s* with barrel roofs trundled.
With wiry horses in their traces and twining
gingerbread trim. No one sat on the boxes, no-one

held reins. They processed down the High Street
and were emblazoned on the morning. They moved
at trotting speed. Each horse high-stepping.
With a lithe runner alongside.
Dark hair and dappled manes

billowed mirrored movements in the drizzling breeze.
High cheekbones and bright eyes gave beauty
to this shabby crew. Paint gleamed water-wet and
tawdry goods lashed to Vardo walls clanked and rattled
as they passed by. Curly coated lurchers and scurrying

terriers ran, impossibly close to the horses hooves.
They needed no instruction. Livery tinkled as the Gypsies
maintained their pace, and trotted light-footed.
Surprised, we stood and watched them.
They did not watch us.


*Vardo. A traditional horse drawn gypsy caravan.




She who Helps

The Mushroom woman drew
a muscle out of her thigh.
It did not appear strange.
I did not flinch but remained
supine and still. She offered it

to me and I accepted. Held it
tightly in my fist. It softened.
Moulded to my hand spreading
comfort, skin to skin. ‘Keep it’
she whispered. ‘It will sustain you.’





Watching Jools Holland.

I glissando’d out of music far harder
Than I crescendo’d into it.
I had grasped the fingers of that life
As tightly as I held my cabasa in rhythm.
I only let go as slowly as a drowning man
Slides away from his failing rescuer.

I had hurtled into music, dived into gigs.
Rolled in rock and drugs and life was
A paradiddle. I careened from dark till
Light and back again.
Days and nights reversed
I sucked up all life had to offer.

Played con passione and then some.
Slept six in a van with last nights’ makeup
Streaking as morning light wiped our faces.
Searched for my toothbrush and clean knickers,
Tucked in with the tambourine and guero
To stop the rattle of jangling instruments

While I dozed. The drum key was
As precious as gold. Detuned skins were
No good to anyone. The key hung like a talisman
round my neck. I walked the walk, spent the time,
Shuffled the green and broke the blues.
But that was then. Now I watch Jools Holland

And comment on the people doing what I did.
Criticise as they suffer in their masochistic spotlights
And I render to shreds the made up musos’
Of synthetic TV fame.
I sit in vicarious limelight and warm myself
In the heat of someone elses sweaty gig.