another momentous day

the monk drew his habit around his shoulders
it felt comforting as a prayer uttered in private contemplation
warming as a shroud laid on a corpse
he’d seen many of those over the years
brothers mainly
but on occasion others like the gardener

tonight the moon rolled itself along the ridge of mountains
and for a moment he imagined himself up there
communing with his maker
wandering the rocky paths in solitude
at one with his worldly thoughts
blessed to be alive on this frosty night

when angels raced across the heavens
and stillness gripped him like a vice
the temperature dropping made him turn for home
thankful for the warm fire and bowl of soup
that waited patiently for him
tomorrow would be another momentous day


an old cobwebbed beardy writes poetry which nobody wants to read – he doesn’t even know where these words come from – some of the things he writes about have been knocking about for years – since he was a teenager – muses have come and gone and now he bides his time in solitude waiting for his angel to take him away – his shepherdess – there is simply no point trying to explain his thoughts to the outside world anymore – he barely steps outside his own thoughts – when you have nothing your thoughts become your only precious possessions – he glides through them like an eagle searching for prey – somewhere hot would be nice – he’s always fancied ending his days propped against a smooth boulder at the entrance to a cave on the side of a cliff overlooking a vast expanse of nothing – but would his angel – his shepherdess – know where to find him – and would the wolves find him first and tear his flesh from his bones – never one for taking risks he elected to stay put – surely she would find him here – he listens for her every day – in the sound of the birds in the overgrown garden – in the wind that whistles through the cracks in the window frames – in the conversations that keep him company when he closes his eyes and leans back into his solitude – the sun warm upon his old cobwebbed beardy face – his smile radiating contentment – he would never know how it came to be that he became an angel himself – what a mystery this life is – how it takes us without warning.

in this field

in this sunny damp and cornered field
I tread the margins of the coming yield

a farmer’s hope for summer harvests
his cash crops sold to hungry markets

and find myself by a wooden gate
its surfaces moss and lichen decorate

long abandoned some long time ago
the surrounding hedge now overgrown

like this footpath I dared to rediscover
to dwell awhile whilst nature chatters

the sun well past its point of no return
taking with it the day’s unconcern

there’s nothing much left here to see
except perhaps a slightly swaying tree

that in the late afternoon growing breeze
is gently urging me to move on please

and leave the secrets I have found
upon this green and giving ground

in this sunny damp and cornered field
I tread the margins of the coming yield



the park, the river, the beach
dried leaves from horse chestnuts
bottle tops in squelchy mud
the driftwood of weathered huts

I circle around those memories
like a seagull searching for grub
the trees, the bridges, the horizon
my friends in the cricket club

I’m off to hunt out stag beetles
or mice under corrugated sheets
my day spent in silent solitude
with the birds and bumble bees

the chalk, the grass, the blue skies
marking white arrows on gates
rolling down steep hillsides
watching red admirals contemplate

you can’t take the boy out of the man
the landscape from out of his eyes
it’s ingrained like rings of truth
every year that flies on by