Treasure

how many tides have turned
shifted and smoothed
sifted and sorted
the pebbles so
today the sea would give up this stone
so you might gift it me
precious as any stone
I have ever held

~

CLP 13/09/2021

Yesterdays

toes freed, feet tickled
by low-tide's sandy ribs
every single little breaking wave
a charge
fired through shocked ankle bones
sparking skin, heart, eyes
whipping North Sea air from my lungs
More waves! More waves! More waves!
more Yesterdays

~

CLP 09/09/2021

Ghost

Aegean blue
or is it green
clear to the seabed
shadow so sharp
it cut me out
cast me in stone
anchored me
and here I am still
waiting for you
to dive in too

~

CLP 29/08/2021

L-plates iii

i will not forget
to keep checking the mirrors
overtaking past

~
 

CLP 23/08/2021

On Charge

once in step hands brush 
blushed apologies exchanged
electrified skin

~

CLP 22/08/2021

Whoa!

stop right there

you just rode in again

out of nowhere

trampled my fragile bones to powder

rode out again

our memory a curse

~

CLP 15/08/2021

On Memory

what is the story

you want to carry around;

love or betrayal?

~

n.b. Choose Love

CLP 01/08/2021

On Memory

cycles of the Moon

cast silver upon our path

trace our parting steps

~

CLP 11/07/2021

Dream #22

Which bed is this? I wake unsure

no standard hotel shape to reassure

my musty head is somewhere secure

familiar start to a new day

with an unfamiliar face

who has just pulled close the door

behind her I hold a memory

of shapes and words recalled too late

that was not her name

she was kind enough

not to complain

we both had our reasons

not quite the same

as my dear friend once explained

everyone has their own

Love story

~

CLP 19/06/2021

Time #1

when it’s been really hot

like today, close to the mid-point of June

eventually the blue begins to thin

as if mixed with a few drops of white spirit

.

the air moves a little faster

adding cool to shade

under the solitary oak

crowning the rise

.

arrhythmic sounds of a distant road backwash

strangely vigorous mid-afternoon songs of blackbirds

who call as if expecting rain

but it won’t, not yet

.

there is no accumulation of clouds

over the Blackdown Hills

just the wind seasoned by a dash of brine

chilled through months of swirling winter tides

.

provoked, other birds respond, goldfinches

keening for respite from potential drought

trying to sweet -talk moisture from the sky

to fill the hard-set hoof prints and tyre-track hollows

.

to soften the soil and freshen pasture

to fill the brook now wearing a skin

that barely covers its old bones

its smoothed stones lie dry, matted green

.

heading west into the breeze

every feather extended to the full

a buzzard floats along the hedge

then shifts its path toward the wood

.

I sit against the towering trunk

spine aligned to its hard rutted bark

listen to the plaintive songs

wonder at how fast my sixty years have gone