Palette of an overcast spring day

Seen from the poet’s loft:Red London bus, double-decker,then a postal van.Grassy yards where in the bedsTulips, bluebells, wilder forget-me-notsNow show. A man in puffy jacket,fluorescent against ground greyfar away.A neighbour shakes a sheetup to the washing-line. Pigeons, magpies, parakeets,finches, robins, full-bodied crowsfrequent the rooftiles,Conifer,Wooden fence below. Some say on such a dayThe only colour to

The good news is

The wet streets open for furtive foxes alleys for cats swaying branches for turtledoves coo-cooing in the rain. Fewer people will be out. 03/05/2020 — An apt poem from the back catalogue to follow a wet, May weekend. It felt like it rained for two days solid, but that is not true. I went out

Last time for 2016

At the elm spring five birds sat in the trees hoping that the coming year is filled with All is well. 31/12/16 Other poems about the shift to the New Year A New Room in the glow of celebration Clementi Brings in 2013

Overcast Eclipse

A blazing sickle of the sun cut a toothless smile unseen by rushing city men caught up in the Mile. Thick cloud across the southern skies obscured the time majestic when darkness peaked – nine thirty-five: a normal day of business. 21/3/15 — This poem was inspired by the solar eclipse mania of last week

The forest birds know not to trust

I proceed on the outside with my daily life, all the while taking mental or handwritten notes. These observations saved ‘for writing’ often echo personal revelations. The regularity of this continues to astound me, especially as I re-post poems from this blog’s archive. It is sometimes said among writers that we are called to write what we are called to

Making soup again

These days I refuse to sigh for cooked up futures. Potatoes from a friend and a bag of mixed root veg for £1 assure companionship. This bounty grated, cooked with stock and bay leaves, will be ladled out for half-a-dozen bowls dressed up with haricot beans. The appraising birds perch in the top bare branches,

Hope and Sky have disappeared

“Northern (Hen) Harrier” by Len Blumin from Mill Valley, California, United States – Northern Harrier. Licensed under CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons. a poem written in London on Sept. 26th, 2014 Sky’s signal stopped September 10th. Three days later, Hope’s did too. Birds of their kind hunt small mammals. Birds of their kind are

he growls today and shakes his whole self

“Look At“, a poem posted this time last year, is a combination of a journal poem and a pavement poem. Derived from mental notes taken during a walk along East Finchley High Road, it documents the comings and goings of an ordinary morning. Observing the ordinary and everyday is a recurring theme. “Look – really look”

look – really look

I will be 80 this year here in my flat only a mile and a half from where I was born. I have tried to lead by example, by plunging my narrow balcony into the principality of hanging gardens. Concrete is brutal. It needs softening. Plants should have dominion. We breakfast amidst the crisp verdure

Nearing the End

The second-to-last exertion is not the rainbow. It is the to-and-fro flight of a raven clamped in darkness for 150 days. Let there be beats the raven’s wings Let there be beats the raven’s hope No land, raven. No release. Below yap choppy waves, corpses float and catch on broken trees. No release, raven. No