10:04am on a Friday in holiday time

Lounging in bed, writing

A tick box of me time

A fox, the one with the tail absent of fur, skips

across the adjacent, vacant school yard

back to his home in the unkept bushes.

Birds zip past my window in the languid,

still grey sky.

The dog lies serenely accepting

the licks and nudges of the cat

who nestles into her

All is quiet

until

the reverberating bawl of the binman’s wagon,

the clattering of lids

and the great thuds as the bins

are thrown back into almost their space,

awaken the sleepy world

Reminding me that it’s high time

I hauled my lazy ass

out of my pit.

The wrong woman

Here lies William Percival Roberts

How he longs to rest in peace

Interred beside spouse Helena

Under soils piled 6 feet deep

In life he tolerated

the sharp, grating pitch of her voice,

her indifferent manner, her coldness.

So far from being his first choice.

A mere six plots down lies Kitty

With her sweet laugh and long auburn locks,

Humility, kindness, a radiant smile.

Such an unassuming fox

Head-first was the manner of his falling

As she’d skipped past him, up Gantling Walk.

He’d longed for a reason to meet her,

An excuse to approach her and talk.

She’d smile at him and often

but he wasn’t the bravest of sorts

His courage proving elusive

while she remained constant in his thoughts

The opportunity never presented itself

The fountain of his hope up and dried

In the meantime, unbeknownst to him,

his parents had selected a bride

of good social standing, a family friend

A coupling of which they’d be proud

They had nothing but money in common

He found her too bossy and loud

He endured the sentence of his marriage

His solitary means of escape

Those nightly dreams, meeting under the trees

his sweet Kitty with her perfect face

He could never break free of Helena,

the sad marriage in it’s sanctity

Now he sleeps in the arms of the wrong woman

for all eternity

Umbrella

Hastily, i press the button

My shield launches straight up

The silver rod within my hand

The dome that sits atop

The heavens drum their melody

The beat begin to quicken

The water runs in rivulets

The roads all start to slicken

My fast response should take care of

This damp situation we’re in

The umbrella providing cover

with us two safe and dry within

There exists a real problem

One not easily resolved

You being of small stature

Mine, freakishly tall

If the brolly’s placed in such a way

to stop you getting wet

The rain falling in droves

will wreck my fresh shampoo and set

With the brolly hoisted above my head

keeping me nice and dry

It’s impossible to shelter you

Whichever way we try

In resolution to this issue

I know exactly what to do

Next time, I’ll bring my umbrella

You pack your one too!

z

my faithful friend with the irregular form

whose hard edges press against my weary fingers

I stroke your horizontal lines

I recline gracefully

on your north east facing slope

I’ve come full-circle

As a youngster

I couldn’t get enough of you

your hold enabling me to thrive and grow

In my twenties, I shunned you

Too busy partying to shoe you in

Now desperate for your sure embrace

the demands of life

strive to keep me from you

Birthday Suit



The suit that was assigned to me

on the day of my birth.

may not have been the most desirable one

or the most fashionable.

It has become frayed at the edges

and has loosened with years of wear



But I never considered asking for an

exchange

or seeking a refund

I wanted no adjustments

There were moments in youth

when I looked at the fabric, the cut and the style

The gaps here, the rouches there,

the excessive length

that seemed only to go with my

accompanying red hat.


I would look at other people’s suits and feel

a tinge of jealousy and wonder what it would be like

to wear their clothes.

But I stuck with it

No charity shop swap for this garb

No switching up to the latest trend

No altering the seams to make it look once more brand new

Now my suit is the most comfortable of all suits.

I know it’s every crease; it’s slightly baggy fit

And I revel in the memory of all the experiences that made it so

My suit – made for me, shaped by me
Just for me!

Fish and Chips

I can’t be arsed to cook tonight

so we’re off to the Chippy for tea

With our busy weekend schedule

It’ll make an easier end to Saturday

We’ll order all the usual things

Fish, chips and curry sauce

Then receive back wrapped in paper

At a quite nominal cost

A stroll along the promenade

A steady breeze smarting our cheeks

The promise – a bag of vinegary chips

to share in our family clique

Fighting off my younger brother

For this finest seaside fare

We all keen competitors

and none too keen to share

The crispy velvet jacket

adorning meaty, moist white cod

takes us to the plastic table combos

of the caf’ adjacent the rocks

All my childhood holidays

in (add town name) by the sea

A bargain from our local shop

For six pounds and fifty p

Ten

PART I

Festering under the hopeless bedroom light, I slope

from the bed to open the curtains

A pigeon serenely surveys the street beneath him, whilst

a fox dives between hedgerows and skips up pathways on his way home

On the horizon, a suspicion, a promise of blue amidst the grey

PART I I

Released, I step outside and let the cold air rush in and fill my airways

Replacing the stale, sweaty odour of my semanal incarceration

feeling strong enough to venture forth

wanting to make the absolute most of it

I jump in the car, rev the engine and head straight to ASDA

Commuters

8am

trudging over tarmac

in metal carriages

trapped amongst the throng;

the squeeze and release of the giant accordian

that concertinas at junctions, lights

and roundabouts

Whose tune resonates

with the blaring of horns

blasted by the impatients

and the impotents

The ASSHOLES

as I like to call them.

5pm

We begin again

From the top

with a weary 1,2,3,4

Prisoners sporting leaden yolks,

harnessed to mortgages,

card repayments,

bills.

Forced into the dance

as the accordian repeats its tune

over and over

Ad infinitum

Peering over the wheel a lonely driver spots

a leaf, pirouetting

along the white line

that keeps us in our lanes

The wind lifting and releasing it

as it relishes the short burst of freedom

reserved for later life

before it is bedbound by rains

or trapped under a tyre

to turn to mulch

and disappear forever.

An ode to wine

I Chardonnay rely on it

but if I’m to be Sancerre

I Chianti get through Friday night

Sans un petit verre de Carménère

Instead of going off my Rioja

I delve into the Cabernet

Sometimes I think I might not

Most times I think Gamay

They say a glass or two is healthy

It may help us stay alive

and that’s certainly important

when you choose what to imbibe

From glugging Garganega

through quaffing Chenin Blanc

Slugging on a Sauvignon,

Gewürztraminer or Cinsault

Of all the beverages under heaven

the best are made from grapes

whether from Europe, the Americas

or the South African cape.

Once I’ve selected from a Malbec,

Syrah, Bordeaux or Grenache

Don’t hand me a mere gobletful

I’ll take the whole carafe

When I truly need to decompress

I’ve no time for sport or drugs

I revive myself with Pinotage

Glug after velvet glug

And in those finer moment

when life’s better than we expect

I pop the cork and celebrate

with Champagne, Cava, Sekt

In conclusion to this poem

whether the day’s good, bad or fine

Compatible with every mood…

Sweet, fluid, reliable WINE.