Poem

(Written for all who shared the 1960’s dream) Part One: The sleeping child. The leafy path of autumn has taken us away, to a place that we can’t find, it’s lost in yesterday. In the Pickering house in Crickets Wood, where moons rose high and yellow, some child still sleeps in wonders world, on a […]

Just silent fortresses, on the edge of time, Pure running waters, no clocks to chime, Leaves float through the wilderness, and then sink……… In the dream streams. Satan’s house is empty, good old country Dave! Harvesting their shades of green, Autumn jugglers played, Wind sweeps through my overcoat; I’m drowning, in the dream streams… The

I heard the trains last night, the rattling of the rails fading out to the last distant echo… That endless labyrinth of rails, the strangers who pursue them on journeys to the far reaches of their hopes. Hopes of tomorrow, hopes of yesterday, down, down the mad rattling rails they go, tracing the map of

I never asked to join a society that only respected, ‘Bright people’, oh, and by the way, that’s what they called them back in those days, ‘bright or thick’. During the 1950’s they flogged you if you were thick, they said you were ‘lazy, work shy!’ In the days when a Prime Minister said, ‘You’ve

Mum died last week, the man said, I would, ‘get a second strength’, and I didn’t get that. Dad lost hope and kept crying but only when he was alone. I would see him crying through the front room window. Dad was Churchwarden for 30 years, absolutely faithful to ‘The Church”. The lonely corridors and

I heard a bell in hell ringing where some hymn of praise was screamed out amid a dark shadow lands. King David watched from afar and whispered: ‘This is the grand secret’, “If I go up to the highest Heaven, behold You are there, if I go down to the lowest hell, behold You are

The Question that nobody hears, the moment that passes, empty fenlands where water meadows hold the tears of the dead, and laughing Seagulls deride the ever hopeful. I once knew the smiles of the gloriously naïve, before childhood was stolen by market forces. The question could be put quite simply, ‘Why don’t we care?’ But

What strange tapestries are woven amid this barren time, and the impossible thought achieved so soon? I am made a thing not fitted for this mechanical zoo. I think, I feel, I hope. The city is alive with crawling things that hoot at each other and growl at strangers, I am bewildered by its intensity.