The poetry of Art Garfunkel

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Pimms in the palace gardens

before the concert, sun soaking

the evening crowd, reluctant

to leave their picnics

and champagne for the music.

One half of a famous duo, the one

that arranged the harmonies

but didn’t write the songs.


Great reception, nevertheless.

Patience even when he craved

our indulgence  to read a few

so-so ‘prose poems’. Now in his 70s,


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For Jo Cox

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in memory of Jo Cox MP


Clacton, where my brother found a sodden fiver

beside a breakwater and my mother

dried it, spent it on a pair of jeans

for each of us. Riches in those days.

Sealed with A Kiss, Poetry in Motion,

It Might As Well Rain until September

on the jukebox. The train from

Liverpool Street seemed to go on for ever. 


Now driving from Clacton through...

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