Early lost manuscript

First Draft

I sauntered solitary as stratus
That bobs above the dales and dells,
When lo I spied a gaggle,
A mob, of flaxen daffodil;
Beside the lake, a’neath the arbour,
Skittering and prancing in the zephyr.

For ever as the stars that shimmer
And sparkle in the firmament,
They spread their eternal stripe
Along the edges of the cove:
A multitude I spied at a glance,
Flouncing their crowns in flitting dance.

The surf beside them span; but they
Out-shone the twinkling waves with ease:
A bard could not be more at peace,
In such an amiable assembly:
I stared--and stared--but little thought
What riches that the vista wrought:

For often when at leisure lie
In drowsy pensive reverie ,
They blink into that blind mind’s eye
Which is the joy of privacy;
And lo my soul with rapture swells,
And dances with the daffodils.

February

Not all months are dull

February's short as well

Snowdrops hang their heads

Buffalo Girls

All the folks who had died on a Sunday

gathered in one room behind an old wooden door

The rest of us waited

some of us for seasons

others because they weren’t ill or old.

Standing beside the grandfather clock
a boyman (17) announced to the gathering

“as of tomorrow I went for a walk”

The midnight proxy cuckooed twelve times

and next Sunday started with an almighty bang.

In the wee hours he started walking

and we all sang loudly

from the bottom of our hearts

“Happy deathday to you, happy deathday to you ...”


All the folks that will die on a Monday
were gathered in one room behind a moonlit door

The rest of us waited
some of us for seasons
others because they weren't ill or old
 
Standing outside The Grandfather Clock 
a barman (18) announced to the crowd
"as of yesterday the drinks will be free"

The midnight proxy cuckooed twelve times

and next Monday started with an almighty crash. 
In the wee hours he started serving

and we all sang loudly

from the bottom of our hearts

“... hang my hat on the horns of the moon
the sun is over-rated ..."

Geometry at early a.m.

Atop an old mountain in the Kingdom of Sundrey

cold rinsed by the electric black crystal with moon,

a smooth pearl in oystered night clouds

sun’s lotion smeared over half its cratered body.

Not a breath

but the wind can wait.

So blow your angles

set sail the clouds

reveal the geometry, the king of tides.

And as for all the battles fought in the hills of the sky,

betwixt the starry nerves of the heavens

the moon remains still,

an origami eye above and beyond coastal cliffs

driving the universal oceans of our blood.

Small Waves

Finish reading
a good book

carefully handle it

turn it over

examine it

back to front

underneath

inside out

as if it was

a lover’s foot

a newborn

a ripple of sparks

photocopied by

sun and moon

on journeys

through memory
to mind

beyond beauty
ugliness, loss

beyond seeing.

Fire and Water

I remember the crow's foot
guiding a rivulet of tears

And further down your cheek
there was a Dee or a Don

I knew the river
I launched boats on the river
I sailed on boats down the river
out onto an open ocean

I sailed to dry lands
scaled the sand dunes
built my house on the sun
and ate my daily bread.

When they found me
I was in love with your leaves
my skeleton hung from your branches
and chimed in the breeze
I imagined a drop of you landing on the grass
near to where we stood in a wind
blowing at a hundred kisses an hour

One day when we can't get any older
we'll build a rainbow
and at the end of it a garden
as still as a houseful of golden children
sleeping and dreaming and whispering
light and water are what I eat best
light and water are what I eat best.

Milkbottle

Her child is crying.

Out on the avenue
the syrupy glow
from a night bus passing lights up the hall. Open door.

There's a whole darkness to wander in.
And out of it
lying in bed are day owls
cranking out dreams
brittle to the touch.

The child is not a baby.
 
There's milk in the fridge for you when you can't sleep.
Open door lights up the hall.
There's a whole darkness to wander in.
A frost but no stars. The butter is hard.

Someone will invent a device
that will record the tinkle tinkle of little stars.

The child wants comfort.

Milk is a start but it needs warming.
There's a whole darkness to wander in.
A whole avenue to walk down.
Headphones. The moon.
A cosmic theme tune.

Where stars are miming
her baby is crying.