Monday, 8 October 2018

Scribbling on trains

How many poets are there writing on commuter trains?
Does every carriage contain someone?
Are they scribbling in a notebook?
Or tapping their phone?
Each one reflecting on their own view reality.
While the world is too busy to look.
But each one wants to share something,
And sometimes someone peers over another's shoulder.
And wonders!
Meanwhile each one adopts the rules
Specific to writing on trains,
Pretending not to want attention.

Friday, 25 May 2018

Sunlight confounds my cat

Sunlight confounds my cat.
Warm in one spot she loves
She lounges and then sleeps.
The sunbeam,
As sunbeams always must,
Moves on.
The lovely source of warmth
Has gone,
The world has turned
And Socky wakes
To stretch a leg
And lick her belly.
Then, with resignation, she adjusts,
Finds the new pool of yellow light,
And sleeps again.

Wednesday, 18 April 2018

Roses, roses, all the way

Thus, the rose,
Is rose red.
Not pink.
No, never pink.
I'm not a pink.
Oh, why not pink?
Is pink too girly?
I don't do pink.
I do red, though.
The reddest red.
Even though
All passion's spent.
A dusty red?
A little like
Dried blood?
Oh, no,
More like an old red rose.
Yes, that's me.

Sunday, 15 April 2018

Spring Flowers

Spring flowers trembling
In a breeze too cold.
Small beads of light
In the brief sunshine
Of a gloomy afternoon.

My heart sighs to see them,
And then it sings;
As they wield
Tiny swords of hope,
Against winter's grey despair.