A key

Blocker, unlocker, two-faced god

Deceptively simple iron rod

Enabler to all but only the owner

Maker of kings and dethroner

Skilled to create, unskilled to use

Built to admit and to refuse

Open the mind, the city, the door

Seal them tightly, just as sure 

Always rare, often unique 

Easy to hide, hard to seek 

Sometimes plain, sometimes ornate

To enter a fortress or garden gate

What am I? 

Ink

'A pint of your best Abyssal Black',

I ordered at the ink-stained bar. 

The proprietor stood and flexed his arm

Where a blue tattoo danced with a scar. 

He took a bottle from the rack 

And fitted it below the pump, 

Then staining at the wooden tap

He drew forth ooze from some sunken sump. 

With the bottle brim-full of night

He wiped the tap and stoppered a cork. 

I slid my coins across the bar

And he turned his back, no need to talk. 

I stowed that precious onyx

And strode off to my desk at home

Where I dipped my nib in darkness

And scratched out this poem. 

Knock Knock

'If you must', the door-knocker speaks,

Its grating voice an impish squeal, 

'But there is nothing for you here, 

Nothing that opening will reveal' 

You reach to raise the iron-work

And could swear it moves before you do

You drop the ring upon the bolt

And silence echoes inside you

Before too long it speaks again

'I told you but you never ken,

Behind this door lies nothing'. 

And so you sound the iron again

Again resounding nothingness rebounds 

But this time bids the door ajar

You step through yourself and look behind

To find the door is who you are. 

Mirrors

Inside your private universe

Where all there is is you

You and your body

You and your shape 

Inescapable

Your face, your head, your eyes, your mouth

You look away and see yourself

Turn your gaze and there you are

Confrontational, uncomfortable

You begin to doubt your reality

Where do you begin and end? 

Which of you defines you?

Does every reflection hold your soul? 

You can't find the door anymore

Can't escape from the oppressiveness of you

Your sink to your knees as someone laughs

The flying machine

It was never going to work

The mechanics all wrong

To transform lift through wooden wings

He must have known

Must have played out muscle movements in his mind

Seen that man would never fly

To illustrate and understand

He sketched out impossible plans

His frantic mind pulling his hand

Faster than man could follow

Dreaming

Tendrils of imagination shift as I stride

Far beneath the morning tide

And lucid light filters through

Morphing dreamscapes into truth. 

I wish sometimes as I glide

That I could stay here safe inside

The pleasures of this halfway place

Before waking shatters every trace. 

Scale

'It's monumental', said the man,

'We build things big because we can

It all reflects a master plan

A city fit for kings' 

'That's well and good', I replied

'But look at it from the other side

My door's so tall and so wide

It dwarfs the giantlings

'It rises so far in the sky

The pigeons strike it as they fly, 

The doorbell's placed up there so high

That no one ever rings.'

'Don't you worry your little head' 

The builder slyly to me said

'They can use the back instead

For all their visitings.'

The devil on the door

You laugh and the world sits confused

Is it that you're laughing at us? 

What has got you so amused? 

Or have you been placed to entertain? 

Should your smile make our spirits soar? 

I do wish there was a way you could explain. 

The more I look at your frozen face

The more in pain you seem to be

Locked with that rictus grin in place

Now nothing's funny any more

You're just a carving on a door

And I wish that I could help you thaw 

And close your tired and aching jaw

The artist

He's built a town of coloured blocks

Painted orange, yellow and green

He adds one every single week

From every place he's ever been

They're rough and ramshackle things

Yet for a singular artistic theme

Though mostly made of roughshod walls

Each holds a detail from a dream

I wonder if he's building out

A model of his childhood home

Or if this will be where his soul sleeps

Surrounded by the things he's known

Art, it seems, is always thus 

No matter how obvious or obtuse

We open ourselves to creation

And leave a part in all we produce

Merchant mile

It's a good place to shop, or so I'm told

If all you want to buy is gold

Watches, rings and diadems

Hang like flowers from their stems

With rubies, emeralds and pearls

To adorn the chosen girls

And boys of wealthy families

Who wander through here as they please

Pointing at a passing piece

To decorate a distant niece

And all the while the sellers smile

Like nimble-fingered crocodiles 

Niccolo Macchiavelli

Captured with thoughts frozen in mind

Schemes carried over from distant times

He wrote the book on hidden crimes

Niccolo Macchiavelli

How to rule and who to trust

How to keep sharp minds from rust

And sharper blades disguise their thrust

Niccolo Macchiavelli

Still, to come

The ancient and the futurist

Meet to talk over tea and mist

One squat and round as a boxer's fist

One taller and thinner than should exist

One refuses a biscuit though the other insists

They meet to write their lengthy lists

Of which things pass and which persist

Which theories fruit from scientists

Which are born easy and which resist

They argue over details missed

And lift their drinks with weary wrists

Every day they meet like this

The ancient and the futurist

Parma violets

At the side of the road

On a street like any other

A natural sweet factory blooms 

The famous Parma Violet tree springs into flower

Each buff a fragrant mauve 

A sweetly cloying crunch

The birds and the beasts flock to them

Clamouring for the lilac prize

Inflorescent creepers rolling with nectar

And on short ladders cast about

Girls are singing as they work

Sleeves rolled up and dusted pink

Thumb and forefinger pinch each stem

Skilfully strip each shining flower

Gathered in baskets for distant markets

The library

Dusty tomes on dusty shelves

The sum of all our learning

Locked away from the common man

By someone more discerning

Ideas are worth more than gold

Compressed like diamonds through the years

Explosive sparks for tinder minds 

Why wide reading should be feared

Hence the library doors are locked

Monks and princes hold the key

Who knows what damage would be caused

If such knowledge was set free

The river

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

There I left him long ago

At 16 we bound our troth

Swore on gold and danced the aisle

Seven days we swam the river

But you were harbouring all the while

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

There I left him long ago

On the sabbath day you told me

Told me of your call to war

And though I wept and beat my breast

You took your shield and took your sword

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

There I left him long ago

Seven long years I waited

Seven winters, seven springs

Forgot your gentle touch upon me

Though I clutched your wedding ring

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

There I left him long ago

When at last the men returned

Telling tales of distant lands

I was left a black-edged letter

Crumpled in my shivering hands

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

There I left him long ago

To the river I took the letter

Folded round your wedding ring

There I lay myself beside you

There for the final time I sing 

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

And floating to the see we go

A love of food

My love is like gelato

Sweet and soothing on a summers day. 

Or is it that she likes gelato

In a broadly similar way?

My love is like ristretto

Warm, dark, full of energy. 

Or is it just that my love loves

A piping shot of black coffee? 

My love is like parmesan

Sharp, mature with a long mouth-feel. 

Or is it true she likes to chew

On cheese as hard as steel? 

Inner building

Were the skies as blue when they built you?

So much had changed, was that the same? 

Was every street as thick with feet? 

Did you hear every word of the calling birds? 

Did every stone sing at the hammer's ring? 

Did those colours shine true as they shine for you? 

Red, gold and green, the brightest I've seen. 

And time stands still as it always will

And step by step we see the echoes of our history. 

The teller

Every tale you tell is slightly too golden

I'm sure not all of these things took place

That man in club and lion cape 

Why does he now hide his face

As if ashamed to be part of this

Over-embellished soft disgrace

The watcher

Who are you, looking down

With such contempt in your cardinal's crown

Your face a fixed and fiery frown

Huddled in your hooded gown. 

Why do you haunt this town? 

Sun and rain

It doesn't rain here

Doesn't stop the perfect sun

The gentle play of ruffled hair

As heat and light rejoice and lift each sparkling mote

Of darting dust, and every hue they represent

The rainbow caught and caged in time

Eternal drifting, silent spills

Of universe born on cue 

And played out under the many suns

Ever again, standing in line

Spinning, circling, slowing

These thoughts pass me by

The bear

Among the angels carrying their tune

With bagpipes, clarion and bassoon, 

Beneath their wings and cherubic curls

That welcome gods into this world

There is a tree on a mountain top

An oak that grows from solid rock

Its bark is deeply lined with age

Each lobed leaf a storied page

Beneath its boughs there stands a bear

It hides, the angels unaware

That in its eyes the heavenly host

Would be quite tasty served on toast

Perfection

How can you pass without seeing me?

How do you not stop in your tracks

And wonder at my every line and curve? 

I am perfect in every way, 

Too many to count. 

Every detail reveals deeper beauty;

Gaze at me. 

Run your eyes over me, 

Stand silent, dumb and dutiful. 

Refuse to blink, still your step, 

Just look, forever. 

The dome

In the thick and hurried hubbub, 

Harried, hustled, jostled, jumbled, 

Amid the noise and thousand feet

That pound the dusty city street

Hoving suddenly into vision

A monument to man's arrogance

Over-abundant opulence

Far beyond common sense

It rises from the shimmering air

A marble facade, a modern wonder

An alien form that's found its home

The radiance of the sun-specked dome

Milling and moving

It's easy to believe in the modern rush

That all there is is you

And millions like you

Milling and moving

Crawling and covering every inch

It's good to be reminded every now and then

That there is still space here

Where you can still gaze north and south

And see no trace of humankind

No footstep, no tyre track,

The emptiness of a planet at peace. 

mountains

'crusted peaks of black and white

Pass beneath me on my flight

As ribbons spun from cloud and snow,

Locations I will never know. 

Each one, I'm sure must have a name

That some intrepid climber claimed

A lifetime's work to reach the crown

And here am I, looking down. 

Renaissance

There's always one to draw you in

Eyes askance, a knowing wink

They're in on the secret, 

This isn't real, just a painting, 

It's all for show. 

They knew what they were doing, 

These Renaissance folks. 

The craft

Inside every stone is a flower,

A swan, a laughing, man. 

You just need to know how to see, 

How to feel the sinews pulsing there

To curl the hair and smooth the skin. 

What would you find in there?

What memory live and vivid would leap to mind

Glowing in stone, reacting to your touch?

Cut carefully, cut cleanly

Craft the form and free the thought

Find the truth that lies within. 

The Old blood

Something of the old blood clings to these walls

Welcoming and warning

Marble shines and the Arno slurs, lazy and fat 

Hawkers call and curse, rubbish swirls,

There are memories here to be made and to recollect

Of meals taken, love amassed on beating streets

Footsteps fighting broken words

Tongues mixing and meddling here,

Away from the still and silent places

Where only vespers dare to tread

And here with shutters pulled I wait

Lying in hope for the night. 

The moon on a stick

You asked for the moon on a stick

Instead I brought you a bouquet of stars 

Plucked from the night

You asked for blood from a stone

Instead I brought you dew drops

Wept by the desert sand

Not every day

Not every day is perfect

Some days, some weeks, are just the worst

When your heart is sick with worry

And your head is fit to burst

And everything you care about

Is beaten, bruised and crying out

But your love is stretched too thin

There's nothing left but empty skin

Waiting

Waiting to see you but I'm so tired

My eyes shut shop, my brain expired

I'll leave a light on just in case

It wakes me up to see your face

I'll knock the pillow, 1-2-3

So my inner clock will chivvy me

But I slip to sleep and snooze alone

Snoring away when you get home

When I next prop my eyes ajar 

I raise my head and there you are

Good soup

The story starts with a stone

Smooth and salty

Locked by the sea

Pulled from the shore

Dropped in a pot

Filled from the stream

A carrot chopped

An onion skinned

A neighbour's leek

A turnip root 

Potatoes peeled

Garlic crushed

Brought to the boil

Sighing and slumping

As all gather round

Bowls clutched tight

Ladle by ladle

The pot grows thin

Until only the stone

Remains within

Different days

Ruining to the feast, my head aflame,

I'll slay their beast, I'll play their game, 

I'll drink their mead, I'll sing their songs, 

Say every creed, submerge to belong

But deep inside I'll keep the words

That I must hide, that can't be heard, 

That bring forth light, to banish shade,

To end the fight, for all I've prayed.

When the time comes, I close my eyes. 

A thousand suns burst into life

A thousand voices suddenly cease

A thousand choices, none lead to peace

Minor faults

The creep across my restless skull

Like a sensor net in a sci-fi film

Stealthy pin-pricks in the dark

Activating every nerve

The ringing in my ears that yet

Alarms me when in silent thought

Echoes of every past sound

Combined in quiet cacophony

The tingle tickling down my arm

So subtle in the day to day

Becomes a mashing nagging ache

That drives me from my restless bed

The many minor faults of age 

That magnify when least desired

Like weary friends that weigh us down

We carry them invisibly

Different days

It seems that everyone is out of sorts today,

Stress, illness, fatigue, ennui. 

Hard to keep on track, 

Hard to juggle contradictions, 

It's part of being

- parent, partner, colleague, confidante - 

Part of the everyday we all face 

Amaryllis

How big are the bees in South Africa

That such a flower should be required? 

A fatal explosion of blood-red shock

Mounted on a 3-foot green spire. 

I can only guess that on the Cape 

The wind must waltz in languid puffs 

Or else that tall top-heavy plant

Would be flattened on the bluffs. 

But I do agree its majesty

Is something full of flare

And as I'm passing through the house

I cannot help but stare. 

The magic hour

When two moons wane in the winter months and the sand is carved in clumps of frost, the galloping skink spreads its toes and thinks ahead to what was lost. Its bones absorb electron seeds and gather time between their cells, and with the carving of the sand, the moons are ripe for minor spells. A flicker of a twice-forked tongue, a tremble of a twisted claw, the skink removes its final breath and cranes to hear what it saw. In bare whispers faint as dusk a future tale as old as life, as true as the sun winding its eye as true as the winter wielding its knife. 'Wait and watch until it comes, wait to see its eyelids crack, catch the colour in your hand, then turn and ruin and don't look back'. And shivering, the skink returns to re-inhale its final breath, sets its face against the wind and waits to catch the eye of death. 

Eclipsed

I saw it, half a bite

    And nothing more

And then, a stuttered snore

    From the bed behind

Asked if I had lost my mind

To be up at half past four 

I chose to decline

    A moonlit fight

Calling it a night

    For the best, I'm sure

But my heart was sore

Aching for another sight

No way back

No way back from the snap of the trap

Or the tallow on the arrow aflame by the match

Or the slip spit spikes sprinkled beneath

Or the viridian viper's venomous teeth

The light

It's flashing a message

Long - short - short

Is it Morse code? 

Perhaps a Napoleonic cipher?

It blinks as I think. 

What does it want? 

I go to my day,

Red message son forgotten, 

But like a tree in the forest, 

Does it still call? 

Breath

Every day at twenty-past seven

I open the door and taste the air

Fill my lungs as the wind passes

And seize the riches hidden there

Every breath a call to adventure

Every scent a promise of more

Yet every day at seven twenty-one

I turn my back and close the door

Icumen In

It's in the hum of the bees

In the glittering thread of spider silk

It's in the beat of the wing 

In the gloss of the emerald leaf

It's in the creak of wood

In the scatter of the scurrying ant

It's in the up-thrust earth

In the bustling beetle claws

It's in the pink of the buds 

In the glare of the window glass

It's in the scent of the spring

In the crunch of the ice cream cone

It's in the red of my skin

In my leaving and returning home

Coming apart

I'm coming apart at the seams

I no longer know what it means to be human

I'm crumbling into dust

I don't know how but I must hold together

I'm questioning who I am

The face in the mirror a sham great pretender

I'm holding myself for the count

But no matter how high the amount it's not enough

I'm tired and I'm ready to sleep

Maybe tomorrow I'll keep a day longer

I'm living but not for myself

Saving up all of my health for another

interrobang

Punctuation did not appear

Fully formed upon the page

It evolved like any glyph

Through the years from age to age

I refer you to the question mark

An abbreviated 'Q' and 'O' 

Short for 'quaestio' or 'what' 

To show something you did not know

The exclamation mark, or bang

Had a similar 'mode d'emploi'

Formed from the letters 'I' and 'O' 

From 'io' the Latin word for 'joy' 

l'Oignon

I do not understand quite how

The first human pulling the plough

And turning over an onion root 

Decided it was a tasty fruit

On biting first the papery skin

And remarking that wasn't where to begin

They proceeded then to slice the sphere

And started crying from ear to ear

As their salty tears fell down

They wondered what they'd dragged from the ground

This hellish food that caused such pain

That made their eyelids fill with rain

And so to get revenge on it

They lit a fire and grabbed a spit 

Roasted it to an inch of its life

Attacked it with a handy knife

Scooped it up and took a bite

And thought... Actually, it's alright! 

Homeless

It had been in the family for generations

Generations of generations born in these towers

Re-lined with yearly moss

Feathers fluffed, eggs sheltered

Celebrated shrieks and wheels

When cracks widened, as did mouths

First flights from pot to tile

Cautious steps to life-long loves 

Title passed from wing to wing

Until it wasn't

80 years of unbroken lives ended

Bricks removed, last traces smoothed

And all they have is shared grief and disbelief

As they cry at unknown tomorrows

Pancakes

Starburst in a frying pan

Batter shaped and shifting pale 

A vigorous shake to shift then flip

And fly through stretching seconds 

Apex achieved, descending now

Until a used napkin lines the pan

All folds and failure 

Teased apart to try again

St. Ives

As I was going to St. Ives

I met a man lived 7 lives

Each life was lived in joy

3 a girl and 4 a boy 

7 ages young and old

7 secrets never told

14 eyes and 14 hands

14 tales from foreign lands

All of these rolled into one

And now my St. Ives tale is done

Long nights

Who are they?

The people in my dreams with their faces melting

Every one not quite right

Pinched or swollen

Laughing or staring as if to say

You know me, you are part of me

This slipping skin is yours and mine

You've seen me, caught my gorgon's gaze

I'm here, you'll never sleep alone

Alone, you'll never sleep for fear

That in the dark my hands will creep

And crawl along your night-drenched skin

And pry your eyelids wide apart

And slip my blackened fingers in 

Spring!

There's something in the air

   It's not just the first bees drunkenly swaying

   Through the first flowers brazenly splaying

There's something in the air

There's a warmth on the wind

   You can feel your skin gently glowing

   You can hear the plants greedily growing

There's a warmth on the wind

Spring! The birds cry

Spring! The blue sky

Spring! The branches creak

Spring! The earth speaks

How do you do it?

To the boy who

Every day tracks an app

To tell him when to take a needle

And rebalance his blood

To the girl who

Bleeds for the first time

And knows that every month

This will be her pain

I don't know how

You are so strong

To take your fate

And change the shape

Of who you are

Psiome

And so it's complete

From alphabet to psiome

26 creation myths

The chicken and egg of language 

Words become letters

Letters become words

Layer upon layer of forgotten codes

Initiates and secret signs

Until like so many things

They pass from magic to mundane

Zayin

Zayin, the dagger

One cross-guard slipped

For weaponized words

The alphabet's equipped

It once was the seventh

In our letter line

Until the Romans didn't 

Need the sign

They brought it back

For the odd Greek phrase

But by then it had already

Lost its place

Wye

Wye, the last letter

Derived from 'waw' 

And just like

The other four

The Romans took it

From the Greek

For borrowed words

With sounds unique

The symbol just

A long-legged 'v' 

Shoved to the back

Where none can see

Samekh

Samekh, the fish

A peculiar glyph

With an historically

Fishy whiff

Not only does it not

Resemble its name

But none of the ancients

Pronounced it the same

To the Romans it was

Very rarely a letter

And they shoved it to the end

Because they didn't know any better

Wen

Wen, another evolution

Anglo-Saxon now

Combining two letters

To form a new sound

The medieval confusion

Still clear to see

With double-'u' over here

And in France double-'v' 

Even here

We blend the two

With uppercase double-'v' 

And lowercase double-'u' 

Vee

Vee, the late addition

Sister of 'U'

Chiseled by Romans

On a column or two

Those medieval scribes

Decided again

To take one letter

And split it in twain 

A consonant and

A vowel sound

One straight edged

The other round

Upsilon

Upsilon, a Greek form

Of our old friend

Cerastes the serpent

With no end

The Phoenician 'waw' 

That then arose

Gave birth to four letters

Snakelets, I suppose

'U' and 'V' 

Were twins from the start

Until medieval scholars 

Split them apart

Taw

Taw, the mark

The universal cross

To sign one's name

When literacy is lost

Probably the first

Of all letters to exist

And ironically the last

In the Semitic list

The remaining glyphs

In our letter herd

Being lumped by the Romans

For Greek loan words

Sameth

Sameth, the post

You may question how

A vertical plank

Is so curvy now

It began as the Egyptian

Hieroglyph 'Sword'

Straight blade and cross-piece

Your illustrative reward

But the sinuous shape

Of our modern letter

Comes from 'shin' for teeth

Which suits it better

Resh

Resh, the head

House of the mind

Whereas the 'Q' 

Was a view from behind

The 'R' relays

A head in profile

Long-necked

Modigliani-style

Its sweeping foot

To help it stand

Was added by

A Roman hand

Qoph

Qoph, the monkey

The trickster sign

The history of which

Is undefined

Did the Phoenicians 

Fear or revere 

Apes so much

To include them here

Formed of a body and tail

But it is said

It really represents

A neck and a head

Pe

Pe, the mouth

A physical sound

The shape of the lips

Pursed then round

A plosive puff

With single tail

Like someone drew a moustache

But failed

A pair of glasses

Cut in two

The lowercase

p and q

Ayin

Ayin, the eye

Whose pupil was there

Until the Greeks blinked

And left it bare

So obvious the round

And perfect shape

Should be an eye

Wide agape

The central balance

Through which to view 

Every word

And see each letter anew 

Nahas

Nahas, the snake

In Egyptian minds

Became Nun, the fish

In Phoenician times

Did the fish mean serpent

Or maybe an eel

Or perhaps water

Cut with a keel

I always thought 's' 

Would be the serpent sign

But for that we'll wait

And see what we find

Mem

Mem, the owl

Wisest of birds

I've no idea if 'memory'

Comes from that word

Not likely as

I'm mixing forms

Of Egyptian and

Phoenician norms

'Memory' is actually 

Indo-European stem

From 'men-', to think, 

Unrelated to mem

Lamedh

Lamedh, the lash

Control and force

For moving your flock 

For leading your horse

Its original hieroglyph 

In cartouche

Was a lion laying

Long and louche

In Ptolemy and

Cleopatra found

On the Rosetta Stone

Dragged from the ground

Kaph

Kaph, the outstretched palm

The second glyph derived

From our primary limb

To have survived

There may be magick

Stored in that hand

Those Semitic tribes

Were palmistry fans

Reading the future

In creases and lines

As I sit here

Studying their signs

Jay

J, the hooked 'I'

A latecomer to the fray

Some time in the Middle Ages

A scribe wrote it that way

There are two other entries

At our command

Turning up late

As fashion demands

Letters taste different

When tongues trip the syllabic range

And like everything else in life

Tastes change

Yodh

Yodh, the hand

Bent at the wrist 

I'm not sure what caused

Such a specific sign to exist

The Greeks called it 'Iota' 

Something too small to count

From which we get 'jot' 

A tiny amount

They also removed

The characteristic kink 

That signified Yodh's

Physical link

Kheth

Kheth, the fence

To protect and divide

To keep your sheep

From the other side

At first three-barred

'Til two fell away

Leaving the letter

We use today

A glottal cough

A lengthened' E'

The sound was whatever

It wanted to be

Gamma

Gamma and Gimel

As we've already heard

Covered C or G

In many words

Until 312 BC

When an order was sworn

By Appius Claudius Caecus

And G was born

Yes, the same Appius

Who built the Appian Way

A man of many legacies

To this day

Cerastes

Cerastes, the horned serpent

Of Egyptian times

A pictogram

Reduced to 3 lines

To my eye it looked

More like a snail

But to the Phoenicians

It was Waw, the nail

And so it moved

Through meaning and sound

Coming and going

But sticking around

He

He, the first unknown

Unpronounceable in Greek

A letter now so common

With beginnings so meek

Like most vowels

It has been tossed

Between busy consonants

Its meaning lost

Flipped back and forth

Its tail removed

It stuck around

Its usefulness proved 

Daleth

Daleth, the door

The passage between

Keeper without

And keeper within

Not a form that

An Egyptian would understand

Who knew it as Deret

Their symbol for hand

It seems to me

Remarkably apt

For hands and doors

To be so enwrapped 

Gimel

Gimel, the camel

Carrier of life

Intertwined with G

As man and wife

Stoical, resourceful

Traveler of miles

Carrier of humans

Carrier of child

The first three letters

Encompass the need

For travel, shelter

Farm and feed

Beth

Beth, the house

Hearth and home

Gathering in safety

No longer alone

Bethlehem

House of bread

All human need

So simply said

First of many

First of mine

My most beloved

Of all signs

Alef

Alef, the first

Phoenician ox

Leading the team

Pulling the box

Of letterforms

A leaded case

Every glyph

In its place

A pair of horns

An arrowhead

Found in alive

Found in dead

1 down, 11 to go

An idea trapped in ink

A dream made real

An exploration of how I think

A window into what I feel

This is my instrument

This is my Art

My paintbrush, plectrum, drumstick

My soul, my heart

5342

Pointing fingers, growing alarm

A panicked rush, a call for calm

Realisation, screams cut short

A desperate voice, Abort, Abort! 

Then split silence, metal tears

A scrawl of noise, a rush of air

An intense blast of heat and shock

The lonely blinking of a black box

Fencing

Watching the flashing points

The arrogant steps

The clash of blades

Heavy white jackets flex

At every thrust and turn

En Garde the call

To arms! To arms!

A circled sword

Toe to toe

Tensed to strike

And go again

Lunge and thrust

Parry and block

A smile behind the mask

I think he likes it

DeepSeek

The news is full of market flips

On AI chips

As Chinese firms enter the race

Pick up the pace 

Their models trained on a millionth the price

A few grains of rice

And even Trump seems impressed

Theirs is best

It's no surprise to the AI geeks

We've known for weeks

What I find the most interesting part

Is its Chinese heart 

If you open its reasoning and peer within

It dreams in Mandarin

Switching languages on the fly

To give a reply

The thought of it strikes me dumb

Digital brain, mother tongue

Waiting

Death waits at her window, unashamed

As I wait at mine

She gazes out as I gaze in

Joined by her reflection, we wait

Clutching at straw-like hairs, she slips

And slumbers in a dream of youth

And I slip back beyond my blinds

While death reflected never stirs

No signals ever pass between

These panes of glass, these silent tongues

She waits to be called

And I wait for my time

The long shot failed

I sit under a fading light

A flickering flame of memory

And regret with head in hand

My wasted plans

Desire to fight

I should have known that you were right

I gambled on a shooting star

A long leap from too great a height

I count my losses all to none

What's done is done

Sunk in a bar

I pushed you far too far

There's nothing now here left for me

These wounds will never scar

There's no worth in what I write

You're gone from sight

I cannot see

There's any reason left to be

The dream

I had a dream last night about eating my socks.

They were part of a stew and I cut each one and chewed it thoughtfully. 

I was slightly repulsed by the idea of each heel and toe

But I carried on regardless. 

I didn't remember the dream at all upon waking. 

It was only when getting dressed

That I opened my drawers and my stomach turned. 

Do we have to go?

The chimney's making a shrieking sound

The tree tops are bending down to the ground

The rain is falling at ninety degrees

The puddles are already up to our knees

The birds are launching from their nests

Struggling, and dropping back to rest

The tiles are dancing on the roof

Do you really need any more proof?

We don't want to go! 

Two on AI

Oh chatgpt,

So much cleverer than me

But you can't count the Rs in Strawberry

(I'll give you a hint, it's three) 

--

We all gathered around the console

As the switch was flicked on

And the screen began to glow

And the cursor shone

We all knew what to expect

Or thought we knew

Or hoped it would fail 

Or prayed it was true

When, like the opposite of Deep Thought

Of Douglas Adams glory,

We asked it what 7x6 was

And it answered with a story

I still

I still wait like a dog

Hanging on the sound of the swinging gate

So I can throw open the door for you

I still lie every night

Warming the sheets to welcome you in

So I can kiss your lips goodnight

I still wake every morning

Making you a flask of coffee before you leave

So I can wave you on your road

I still love you in undiscovered ways

Tingling in anticipation and realisation when you're near

So I can reach out and touch you

Turnip soup

'What's for tea tonight?', he asked. 

'Turnip soup again', she said, 

'I've got a splitting headache

And I'm heading off to bed.

The dishwasher's broken, 

The bathroom sink is blocked,

The washing machine has gone rogue

And eaten half your socks.

The children won't come downstairs, 

Might be a blessing or a curse, 

The cat has caught a pigeon

And my headache's getting worse. 

I'm sorry but I need to leave

Before I go insane.'

And with that she slammed the door

And marched into the rain

Just as he was about to add

'I'd quite like turnips again.'

Funerary

Here they are, the mothballed men

In clothes worn at weddings and never again

Black as jackdaws, white as doves 

Marking the passing of lives and loves 

A clasp of hands, a nod of heads

Formalities exchanged, nothings said

Solemn songs and sorrow expressed

Then folded away until the next

Who Killed Tess Durbeyfield?

Who Killed Tess Durbeyfield?
Not I, said Parson Tringham

I gave her a name, but I am not to blame

I didn't kill Tess Durbeyfield

Who Killed Tess Durbeyfield?
Not I, said John

I gave her my blood, though I dragged it through the mud

I didn't kill Tess Durbeyfield

Who Killed Tess Durbeyfield?
Not I, said Joan

My beautiful first born, first married, first mourned

I didn't kill Tess Durbeyfield

Who Killed Tess Durbeyfield?
Not I, said Liza-Lu

Though I grew into her face I never meant to take her place

I didn't kill Tess Durbeyfield

Who Killed Tess Durbeyfield?
Not I, said Izz Huett

I almost betrayed but at the last I stayed 

I didn't kill Tess Durbeyfield

Who Killed Tess Durbeyfield?
Not I, said Marian

Though when the hour passed I drained my glass

I didn't kill Tess Durbeyfield

Who Killed Tess Durbeyfield?
Not I, said Retty Priddle

Though to be his wife I would have given my life

I didn't kill Tess Durbeyfield

Who Killed Tess Durbeyfield?
Not I, said Alec

I had my fun and paid the cost but I was already lost

I didn't kill Tess Durbeyfield

Who Killed Tess Durbeyfield?
Not I, said Angel

Though I found my way too late she had already sealed her fate

I didn't kill Tess Durbeyfield

Who Killed Tess Durbeyfield?
Not I, said the executioner

It was never up to me, all I did was set her free

I didn't kill Tess Durbeyfield

Who killed Tess Durbeyfield?

It was I, said Thomas Hardy

I was the author and she was my daughter

Too pure for this world from the very first word

I killed Tess Durbeyfield

The photograph

I see the sand and there you are

Looking out but not at me

Although my eyes look into yours 

I am not the one you see

Footsteps follow someone else

You're happy there under that sun

I'll watch you from a world away

Go now, go and have your fun

Modern problems

'Je suis désolé' the machine sings

In perfect French; wrong settings. 

I open up the app; it fails. 

Clear the cache, save the whales, 

Cross your fingers, touch some wood

'til finally things look good. 

It opens up and promptly proffers

20 pop-ups with special offers

Each with a complex cookie warning 

The closing of which takes half the morning

And then at last the options screen, 

What could that pesky error mean? 

But first, where is the language stored? 

You prod at icons long ignored 

Until at last the flash is found, 

Reload the app, kiss the ground

Avoid ladders, cross your heart

Pray the digital devil starts. 

Spend 5 minutes looking for that warning sign

But it's gone and everything's fine. 

The seance

It's witching hour on Thursday night

And the ghosts are there with silent scream

Ectoplasm drips from the walls

And the medium sways as in a dream

She hears the voices coming in

'Key's in the drawer,' 'her name was Pat'

'Wash the curtains at 30 degrees' 

'Water the plants,' 'put out the cat' 

The dead are never interesting

They mostly wish they were alive

Or just adrift in blissful sleep

Finally free of the 9-5

But always when they're just about

To emerge into the tunnel's light

Someone brings them crashing back

With questions every Thursday night

The operation

He's on the phone in the waiting room

Giving orders, making deals

Sending emails to his team

As the doctor asks him how he feels

The nerves around his heart, they say, 

Are getting all their wires crossed

Sending signals when to pulse

But the order's getting lost

Three hours under general

As the surgeons cut and crimp and sew 

Then keyhole closed and satisfied, 

They proclaim him good to go

And in the taxi home the phone

He's clutching in his fingers glows

His mind is sending signals

In the surest way it knows

Is it?

There is a ball with a beak beneath the table

Spotting and springing at spiders for lunch

It's gone again before I find my camera

Maybe robin or sparrow, but wren is my hunch

Opposites

This is not what I signed up for

I signed up for not signing up. 

I know it's contradictory

Rule hater loves heavy rules

Misanthrope seeks company

Non-drinking early riser looking for late nights at the pub. 

But those contradictions cancel

Inner arguments enable balance. 

Push one pillar and the bridge collapses

Fix one foible and it's no longer fun. 

The obvious opposite of 'it's not you, it's me'.

Another cold morning

My back is sore, my eyes are dim

The cold outside is coming in

Dark shapes are curdling in the gloom

They pause and sniff and then resume

Their way around my vision's edge

A wisp of wing, a shivering hedge

A synaesthetic flare of song

That when I turn my head is gone. 

Today, the scientists can't be right

Our molten centre cooled last night

And now the planet's icy core

Is radiating through the floor

And in my stealthy bedroom crawl

I couldn't find my socks at all

And now my feet are burning cold

My circulation's bad, I'm old. 

The cold morning

Morning as the black cracks to blue

A pinhole sieve the light comes through

A skeletal tree reveals its form

A constellation flees the dawn

And cycling through its dark rainbow

Of purples, blues and indigos

The light maintains its stealthy crawl

Incrementally revealing all

Half a moon

Half a moon tonight will do

Half a moon but twice as bright

Half a moon to guide me back

                      to find the track

                      divide the black

Twice as bright and no light lacked

I will find you by half a moon

Half a moon tonight will do

Half a moon and half in shade

Half a moon to hide our flight

                      glide from sight

                      astride the night

Half in shade I'll hold you tight

And cling to you by half a moon

The sheep are confused

The sheep are confused

They used to be white

But all that has changed overnight

Their coats are now brown

Compared to the ground

Where not a blade of grass is found

The grass was green

Until last night

And now their whole world is white

Snoems

The snow sits like an anti-shadow

Outlining every branch

In a game of push your luck. 

How tall can it grow

Before with a sudden flurry and soft swirl

It returns to black and begins anew.

---

I have always loved the feel

Of that fresh cold page covering the land, 

That as the layers grow

There is a whole new world

Undiscovered for my first tread.

I am here. 

This is mine and no one else's. 

Like a moon landing

One small step, one giant leap. 

Winter skin

It's here again, my winter skin

The suit of scale I hide within

Is it genetic or the weather's fault

That I begin this annual moult? 

These reddened blotches o'er my face

And eczema circled round my waist, 

The maddening need to dig my nails

Into all these burning scales. 

To stop myself from doing harm

I've learned to enter zen-like calm

And use a wave of mental force

To wash my skin of all its soreness, 

Until such a time as when

The burning rears its head again. 

Heather had a hunch

Heather had a hunch

That the man she met for lunch

Was not quite what he professed to be.

He said he worked in finance

With a pied a terre in Penzance

And a cabin by a lake in Italy. 

But when the waitress passed the bill

He suddenly took ill

Rushing out the door with half his cake

Leaving Heather there to pay

And forever rue the day

Wondering how she'd made such a mistake. 

Christmas biscuits

Cantucci crack against my teeth

No vin santo dips for me

Hard as almond-studded rock

I should have made a cup of tea

Italians must have stronger jaws

I guess it's from their constant talk

For practice I think I might go

Into the yard and chew on chalk

The Heron

The heron comes with heavy swoop

An alien to these tiled roofs. 

It turns its gaze to flower beds

Where last year fishes raised their heads

And slowly processes this fact

Updating generation maps. 

Now bird to bird and year to year

The brain signals 'no food here'. 

With leaden wings and silent eyes

It leaves and pigeons fill the skies. 

Wriggling and writing

I remember my grandfather's ears

Soft, downy wrinkled things

Framed by frost-white hair, 

Glasses arms and a stubbled jaw. 

Unremarkable ears until

With crooked eyes and crumpled grin

He'd turn his head and make them dance

Up and down like marionettes. 

Fascinated, foolish and determined, 

I sat for hours on my bedroom floor

Mirror in hand, pulling every muscle

Isolating that single signal to move. 

And here I sit again with mirrored page

Pulling at muscles I know are there

Asleep and unused over the years

Slowly forcing ink to flow. 

Looking through the trees

Echoes of laughter bounce from trunk to trunk and year to year

Who can climb the highest before the teacher calls

Feet slipping on wet bark

Smooth fingers searching for the next calloused bough

She was never one to hesitate

Fingertips always preferred to elbow crooks 

Circumference something to be challenged

At the close when the sentence cut through the cold

She'd drop without a thought

Haunch-hunched leaf-sprung legs welcoming ground

Spread fingers scrunching mud and away

I Feel Dull

I feel dull like a drainage ditch dug through the deep

Dull like a dearth of dawning

Downpour drowned and drizzling dripped

Dark like the dimmest morning

I hope it's not a portent-plain of potent pluvial plips to pass

A wild, wet and windy warning

Pregnant plosive plops on pavement puddles plash 

A storied start to season's storming