My life is a work-in-progress

my writing and poetry too

the advice is still, unfortunately, 

to take another route through.

A love-struck Romeo too. 

Some writing is not about something

some writing is of itself;

some writing is something to lean on,

a floating melody of swans; a yelp of pain.

Help! 

When first we feel, we fall,

under the shadow of the shelter of trees,
where we listen to the birdsong

and all the brilliance of bees

who scrape a living
in this unacred blue.

I really love them,

through and through.

Trees can do wonders for my mood too.....

haloed be her eve,

her singtime sung,

her rill be run,

unhinged as it is unleaven.

Some lives just drift away

(others just quit)

these endless queues at barriers

just confuse me 

like the flitting to and fro of a moth on a late summer midnight.

What I do does not rhyme with these times

(of the plurality of 'truths' that abound,

the ubiquity of lies).

Outside a tower-block lift,

below the stink of humanity,

a sniff

of the veritable outside.

O! it's heaven here after rain,

and a mother's refrain is always the same
as is her love and the uneven rarity of  bliss.

In my secret garden,

in the cubby hole under the stairs,

where i imagined perfumed ease under unvaulted skies,

when you and I could fly

into deepest childhood

spend our days

like the unstrung pearls

of the years

dropping by

into one another

soundlessly

falling into this chain of words
far-far away in the thinning away way

of the absurd, from here to eternity, 

we remain, just you, and I.