It’s been a busy Autumn, as various social groups have returned from their long hibernations and diaries are once more filling up. Continue reading “The Things that Make for Peace”
after Kerouac and Keats
My heart aches for tranquility −
for the still, clear, rhythm-
that a dead, Beat Poet’s heart
has. Jack’s beats time
silently − painlessly now −
after the bloody, full-stop dash
On The Road to his last sentence. Continue reading “A Poor Vintage”
We shall know after
says the inscription on the tomb
of 1760 Irish Rifleman, Hugh Catherwood
He died in Wimereux
4 August 1917 alongside
Darling Ted, 10035
Private E Elliot of the 3rd Hussars
There’s a holy well in Holywell. Of course there is – isn’t that how it got its name?
Hand of friendship bitten. Continue reading “In Our Hands”
The smell of wild garlic in the woods
overlooking the beach is a reminder
I haven’t eaten in days. I fail in the smallest
of ways, it’s my life’s work.
My grass had grow almost untouched for the best part of three years. In places, the grass roots were so densely entangled that pulling on one plant might roll up a whole section like rotting underlay. It had broken my lawnmower long ago. A local farmer with a brush cutter cleared the part visible from the road and tractored the mowings into a heap at the back. He did a good job, but it took several days and the noise was almost unbearable.
He wrote the score in ’64
A symphony for the ages
Rewrote the scores of heretofore
Laid out his plan in stages.
But many came to damn him down.
With drums and pipe they came to town
While others played along with him
Then chose to sing a different hymn.
Continue reading “Larghissimo”
Thou O Burren hast opened mine eyes and my tongue shall announce thy praise
Strong grey, defiant grey,
Speckled, freckled grey,
Spilled grey, frilled grey,
Shattered, splattered grey,
Smooth grey, Orate pro nobis