Thick night

A heavy mist sits

On the ghosts of trees

Damping sound close

To the dark deep

Fox barks sound far

Through wet air

Milestones and workmen

It’s 1am on Monday morning and I sit here celebrating a grand blogging milestone (for a simple poet, that is)… Thank you to the 200 of you well-versed and glamorous fellow bloggers who have me pop up in your reader window.

Here is an impromptu poem to celebrate this frabjous day:

Milestones and Workmen

You waited all afternoon
A torrent raged in our street
All morning our frost damaged water pipe blew
Spewing fresh clean water
Gushing down drains
Tearing down alleys

You waited from 3 O’Clock this afternoon
You waited, stoically, on your phones

And as your jackhammer
Whirred into life
At 10.30 last night
As the cursing and hollaring of your busy crew grew
I knew this devotion to your job
Would inspire some Sunday night song

And in this once sleeping
(and sleep needy) estate
Great things were at work on our water supply
And a poet who would have been asleep
Was awake
Exploring a Wild World of Words
Lost in poetry

laptop screen and hands

[thanks again to all of you who support this kind of art and for creating your own worlds for my mind to visit. And of course to the men from Thames Water for sticking by me into the wee hours.]

Penfold’s Verse

Take me, hold me
Shake me, wake me
Tell me, Show me
Hold me, squeeze me
Follow me, breathe me

I’ll float away on your words
And I’ll croon with the Kakapo birds
When you’re here I can’t face you
When you go; how I chase you

On our silvery shimmering lake
I know your face reflected
The shiny stars that fly
Are merely others eyes rejected

And then, of course, you go away
You drift out where I fear to reach
I see you go and stand – think –
Then tear off down our beach


This is the side of the fall
where it’s dry
all the time,
where the sun doesn’t shine.
Noises break the dust up
but it’s safe
so long as the water
doesn’t stop.

Le Livre Française

Outside the internet café
You sit reading your French book
A sweat bead races others
To the hem of your red striped frock
I hear your dancing words
And understand not one
Until another scooter
Dings loudly past
And flicks dust from the road
Here you breathe out noisily
And suck gassy coke
Returning to your reading
Leaving the loud ting of can on table
As soundscape
To the shimmering view
Of catamarans on that blue water.