Reflection of a Dead Dragonfly

As winter is upon us and
The heavy duvet togs me down
Warm, away from the frosty world
I look back to warmer days.
Finding only a long dead Dragonfly
Gripping still his cold and once
Most favourite perch above the mire.

Too Thick

ten to a micron
a million lines of code
streaming at two thirds c

the eternity
of this morning wasted
jammed by my fat head

The Cold Morning Before

This fine crisply cool late summer morn is wasted,
or rather I am, as it bursts unbidden upon the room.
The squeaky-wheel bird has nested atop my head
and he knows but one single, terrible, treble harmony;
notes played upon the ear and skull, with gusto.

Fine colleagues, do not surround me in sleep, rise;
like the hopes in the strengthened, practised, arm
you showed as we sung evensong until the dawn.
Rise I say; sleep not like the just and righteous man
who bangs, now, heavily upon my shrunken soul.

Happy Happy Sad. Repeat.

Looking out through my reflection
I hear the pride of the Robin,
chest puffed into the early sun.

Below fevered Sparrows strip-mine
last years leaves into untidy slag.

A weary Gull struts centre stage and
the heavy footed dance begins;
hobnails softened on the heads of worms.

Dark under Rhododendron cover Boris
watches all with a commando crawl,
a black cloud oozing forward as
whiskers whip back the crowds.

A disgusted banging razes all hope;
only still and silent remain whilst
the warm imprint of the hand of God
fades slowly inwards from the sky.

In the bathroom I shave the frown
from my face; lighter now that
I don’t see myself staring back.

Outside, courage tickles away
tightness from bellies as
they lurk outside my world.

The Silence of a Dry Twig

A dry twig off the old branch
of the long dead oak tree,
that stands alone against
the slow outside curve of the
more than man deep stream.

A dry twig held in two clean
fingers and an everyday thumb
chambers the silence inside,
the prize of the noisy mind
that now pushes skin on wood.

A dry twig cracks its silence out
freezing rustling feet and closing
cheeping beaks; soothing wind,
water and thought into a single
image that stops the clacking clock.

A dry twig severed and emptied
discarded on the muddy bank,
is tidied away to the magpies
nest high in the dead oak tree
where silence rarely falls.

Front Window

lawn littered
by fat leg’ed witless oaf –
depression lingers

Chicken of Despair

Every dawn I romped with the chicken of despair.
Afterwards I would roast it and eat it hot.
The dinner dance often clucked ‘til dusk;
fat with chicken I was a stout but happy fellow.
Now, your diet pills, taken with cold water
(because a fat man must never dance outside)
make me hate even the smell of chickens.
I am not thinner.
Nor am I empty.

I’m a wicker man.
Virgin fear clucking in my belly.
Alight, we could roast together,
but I must let it peck and claw my insides;
eat my cornflakes and cheese sandwiches and smile
(because I know it will want a dance after its tea).
I say I like them and you say I’m better.
I am better.
Better at hiding chicken bones.

Ice Cold

dark icy river –
suns warm touch wakes
tormented waters

Holding Back

I do not dream of working naked,
of sporting prowess or having super powers.
Nor do I wake from falling downwards,
from ghoulish monsters or daemonic hatred.
I wish for but one most simple pleasure;
that I might take a walk upon the sands,
bolstered by the cooling onshore breeze,
my dogs running circles against the sea.
My want is but to be as free as them,
to cross my path and speed right on,
instead of tripping in its rutted depth,
cut by dampened chain and morbid anchor.

Unsatisfied Hunger

unseen force whips last
biscuit coloured leaf away –
empty wrappers burn