The Wayfarer, the Miners and the Huckberry

I sang of wayfaring today,

my song-wave

out of tune

with the words

next door.


The huckberry


in the late afternoon,

an audience of birds


once more.


Gently the arborists

say the tree

should go

from its city berth,

its self-seeded ambition



For the sake

of my friends

sipping their song,

I pretend

I can trek

with a tree on my back.


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The Beehive

There’s a hint of a beehive

in the air

all that scurrying about

as people throng outdoors

like insects uncertain of their hives.


I’m walking away from weasel

words, bureau-speak

joining the office nomads

taking the road to nowhere


Honey, hang up your briefcase

and throw off your shoes

time to buzz off


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Lost line

Was it a line about strange saturn’s rings

so thin that they must cling and zing

in our transient earthling imaginings?


Or a strolling trundling thought

on how our sun caught the last of day’s

smiling beam and held it tight and taut?


Somewhere I lost a stray line near the fen

with no pen to write it down. I was watching wrens

when something odd and bountiful appeared again.


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in which the quiet was this night

The routine of day

drifted like a swan

on the Serpentine,

calmly upright and a little regal

all dressed up in the regalia

of Sunday.


I strolled leisurely towards night

day’s sounds flouncing and

jumping like squirrels in the park

scurrying and flurrying about

in autumn’s leafy show.


Only when dusk set purpose

on promenade and hubbub

retreated into shadow,

when the echoes of day dipped,

and statues stilled, did I hear,

as if rising like the moon,

the sound of nothing

the sound of the air itself

all the sounds of quiet

not a ripple


It is this night.


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are sprouting in the soil

even as bureaucrats

bury stock

in landfill

or warehouses.




along the bookcase

irises, tulips, daffodils

exuberance and abundance

opening like gestures in my hand


I press paper daisies and cornflowers

in the thickest thicket of pages

hoping they will be found



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