Poem ‘At Cromer’

At Cromer

When I look down toward the beach,
the distant pier seems to stride
forward from the shining sea.
I like to look beyond,
to the bands of turquoise and blue,
an ocean painted in bold,
abandoned strokes.

Why are we drawn to the waves?
Those elemental rhythms,
sounds and colours
of a primary world,
where sparse pointillist spots
busy themselves on
yellow-ochre sands.

Some days the morning
unfolds through mists,
groynes spacing out
the distances along the strand,
until a final fade-out,
well before the sea
can meet the sky.

Overhead, pterodactyl shapes
patrol against fresh patches
of blue. As I approach,
the blurred semblances
of buildings appear, rectangles
feathered violet or grey,
as if stepping off the cliff.

*Painting from an original, digitally enhanced.

Poem ‘Bistro (when in Paris)’

Bistro (when in Paris)

what a surprise
to see our bistro still here,
so missable tucked away
between jewellers
and quirky galleries

‘au clair de la lune’
is so laid back,
subdued
in gratifying veils of gitanes,
softened
by potent aromas of pastis,
sensual
like biting through rarest
tender veal

if I may ask right now
(gently plying you with Chablis),
if Montmartre were a woman
who could she be
if not you?

*image is a digital creation.

**I am a vegetarian now, yet you never forget the taste of…

Poem ‘Still’

Still

We awake to whiteness,
standing still to take it in,
like nothing will ever move again.
A few footprints in the snow,

silent records of an earlier day.
You say this is how it should be,
our minds lost in books, our dreams,
stretching out in listless days

and long nights. I yawn down
the stairs to click on the kettle,
soothed before a misting window
by the straight-falling flakes.

First published in poetry collection ‘Anonymous Lines’ available at:

http://liten.be//sVGsz

*If you are having a Christmas break, have a peaceful one

** Many thanks to all of those who have read or commented on this blog. I am very grateful.

Poem ‘Until the End of the World’ (work in progress)

Until the End of the World

He walked with me
some of the way

Through the dark woods
he became a bright torch
to illuminate overgrown paths
where leaves of oak and ash
caressed my face like friends

On the high moorland
he was the warm fleece
which I wrapped around myself
to shelter from the cold and rain

And when we sat down
in the clearing by a stream
he produced this feast of food
which I shared with a host of birds
and others sitting tamely at my feet

But when he stood up to go
his skin turned a deathly white
I watched helpless
while he vanished silently
into a bank of willow and alder
swallowed by the rush
of the now turbulent stream
The animals all scampered away
to peer at me from somewhere
unseen in the shadows

I began to trudge home
shivering on the high moorland
drenched to the skin
with only hardy sheep for company
who eyed me warily
when I staggered by

Once back in the dark woods
I soon became lost
the stinging branches whipping me
and thorns piercing my flesh
while groping my way through

In my bag I found the old torch
with its flickering light
I hit it against a tree
trying to make it work –
my only recourse
in such a state of loss

*dedicated to all those who have found faith

*image is a digital manipulation an original

Poem ‘Silent Wings’

Silent Wings

Looking up into darkness
he asks if that smudge is Andromeda.
She thinks it may be.
He’s heard its light takes
two million years to reach his eyes,
stories on swift silent wings;
galaxies so far away,
so near at hand
like froth spinning round
in her coffee cup.
‘I’ll go there one day,’ he says
‘Why not go right now?’
she asks – ‘in your mind!’
He looks up once again
his mind big like the light-filled sky,
recalling her story of Horus
crossing millions of years

*illustration done wholly digitally

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