True Nature

A wolf howls skywards

To tell the pale, waxing moon

Of the solar death

The raven squawks in flight

As it tells the morning star

Of the sun’s rebirth

A man cries alone

Unaware of dark or light

In his Brexit hell

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ðə króz ləmɛ́nt

(tékən frə́m ‘the bʊ́k ə́v crows’)

kró stǽnd ən fíld

sɪ́ŋ kró sɔ́ŋ

tú hjúmən ɪ́r

sáwnd rɔ́ŋ

koww koww koww

kró blǽk ə́v wɪ́ŋ

kró blǽk ə́v bón

kró blǽk ə́v hárt

kró só əlón

áj hǽd brə́ðər blǽk

bə́t brə́ðər blǽk ɪ́z gɔ́n

tékən báj ðə wɪ́ntər

hɪ́r máj sǽd kró sɔ́ŋ

“stick mǽn

...

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Poem for Bob Crow (cheers W.H. Auden)

Stop all the docks, cut off the trains, 
Start the mariners striking, be still the cranes, 
Silence the busses and with muffled bullhorn 
Bring out the coffin, let the workers come. 

Let politicians circle, moaning overhead 
confessing on the airwaves, He Is RED, 
Put nooses round the white necks of the bosses, 
Let the riot policemen carry their o...

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`



the old crow
that blotted out the sun
perched upon a fencepost
and made faces
I have only ever seen
with nose pressed
against the pane
as I spied
fallen leaves taken
onto the saddle
of a chilling breeze
to where tomorrow
could not yet be





`

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