Tag Archives: love

Crossways, Minley Manor

Age 10


School run, homeward bound.

Nine kids jemmied into a taxi

pre Jimmy Saville;

three up front, four in the back,

one in each foot-well.

Someone always lets rip a real


boys farting proudly,

girls releasing more


So deliciously innocent.


Last drop- red gabled hood

over scented greenwood.

Rhododendron enclave

gave privacy and showy blooms alike.

At the door, apron clad, floured

of hand and cheek

Mrs May meets and greets us,

‘Scones for tea… Yippee!’

Four inches high

they belie their lumpen looks,

still warm and buttery,

home-made-damson-jammy heaven.


We had handmade dad-made

whittled whistles

so we could find each other mid

the pines and rustling birches

where we often hid,

only revealing our position

when called into the kitchen

for shepherds pie,

or stew, or fish on Fridays

always with bread and butter

and a cuppa.


House on the round

We ran from kitchen to sitting room to hall to kitchen,

round and round,

chasing ghosts,

the sound of

slamming doors confounding Mother’s patience.



nestled in the sloping eves,

playing kiss chase in our dreams,

onanistic pleasures

our new discovered

midnight treasures.




woodblock trees stamp black cross citrus sky,

guard the crest, stand firm against marauders,

seasons march on forwards laying waste the years,

talcum dusted lunar lands, weathered feldspar fields,

hoar-crust roads glint old-foolsgold, xanthene tears.


driving to the station, lemon dawnlight breaking,

I’m unaware of just how far your destination’s

taking you. our snowy owl sits knowing, watching

from his sign, it must have been an omen,

should I have turned the music low and spoken?


we talked last night, it’s not been long, you said,

twelve weeks four days six hours ten minutes

and still counting, seven million bloody beats

of waiting, longing, missing twinning rhythm,

no wonder I feel weary, beaten, broken.



yeah you.

which one of us?

does it matter?

now we’re gone

we’re all the same?



wish I knew

what it was all about.

you and me too.

wish I knew now

what I thought I knew




for an intelligent person

you’re not actually

that clever.

wish I’d been proved


wish I’d not been proved


so much poured into

so little.


so much pain

for so little gain.

you’ve lost me now.

such a bloody waste

of so much energy.


I’m still angry

yeah I see.

it’s all so


don’t you think

you were chosen?


our perfect little victim?






Returning to air rarefied,

refined, lucid prism arc

turning dark hill-top trees

into lino-cut likenesses,

my adventure just over or

maybe just begun, who knows?

I am an incompetent judge.


This smitten mortal,

swift with tender sweetmeats

treasures and morsels stuffed

with lust and tenderness

unnerves me. I mistrust his

cloying riches, more used

to thriftier, simpler fare.


Sister One wisely suggests

I need to grow accustomed

slowly, ‘Get used to it girl,

it doesn’t always have to be

Rock n Roll’ she says. I laugh

for that is what I seem to require,

although I don’t know why.


Sister Two listens and says

‘you deserve to be cherished.’

I laugh again, wanting to agree,

modesty curbing my hubris.

To believe it would demand

such faith in one mere mortal.






The Ark Of Taste

‘Be my Ark of Taste,’

you said,

‘my ivory silken vessel.

I will lay you on a table,

place rare foods

upon your skin

foraged during

travels in



of the world.

I will eat from you,

start at your feet,

work my way through

the undulating landscape

of you to the


I did as I was told,

undressed and lay

on the crimson damask cloth

you had chosen for the occasion.

‘Close your eyes,’

you said,

‘relax… I may be some time’

from the spaces between my toes you nibbled violet asparagus

nurtured by taciturn monks in muted monastry shadows

from the gentle slopes of my arches you bit at diminutive olives

collected from netted groves on ancient simoom-swept hills

from the shining ridges of my shins you scooped freckled pears

pale-grained nutmegged quarters wrapped in pancetta layers

from the bony mountains of my knees you licked salty anchovies

fresh fried crisp in butter, limoncello lemons squeezed over

from the great plains of my thighs you slived wild salmon slices

caught in peaty waters smoked over aromatic beechwood fires

from the secret centred folds of me you slurped caviar pearls

popping creamy sweet and salty seized from river-gypsy thieves

from the whorl of my belly button you ripped rose-tinted flesh

from spotted skins of figs dressed with honeyed thyme scents

from the hill-tops of my breasts you enveloped ruby cherries

steeped slowly in dry vermouth oozing blood-red juice

from the hollows of my clavicles you sipped amber mead

nectar heady spiced with vanilla cinammon juniper berry

from the slips of my lips you sucked mellifluous syrup

tapped from maples sap-rising in welcome spring-time drips

from the folds of my ears you fished rose furled shrimps

deep from rocky inlets warmed in blushing golden dawns

from the wetlands of my eyes you swallowed briney oysters

raised in back-water creeks sea-weeping salt-trails of tears

and finally sated you settled down beside me and slept

I Hear Your Call

The term. Oesophageal Varices.

Blood flows, it fills your lungs and oozes,

blacklashed bruises crimson tears closed-eyes

hemmed in by black-gut twist. I hear your call.

It’s time to take your leave, death’s wanton whore

demands the living line to still, to view

her neon underscore, the beep your

overture, your wordless note. I hear your call.

You leave me feathers in your silent wake,

the first I found stuck to my sole, and knew

you’d come to me in dreams, and leave an ache,

my Ariel, and still, I hear your call.

Somehow love missed you, held you in it’s thrall,

and how it missed… yet still, I hear your call.


You lie not here, yet here- wired up, the beeps
viridian tracings flowing through your veins.
Our love seeps through, you later tell us. Seeps
through, while we watch you sleep. We call your name.
You say you heard us, but you did not care
to take your leave quite yet. You felt this world
you could forsake, for you were happy there.
I walk Venetian lanes and hear the swirl
of lapping water lipping over piers
of umber wood. The amber sun held deep
within the ancient crumbling ochre years,
rose-madder shadows flecked with gold. I weep
for if I take my leave just here I’ll be
so near to reaching life’s sweet apogee.

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