London to Brighton

 London to Brighton 

There’s a life a life, a glimpse of a life 

in a terrace a row where the railway runs 

and weary I wonder and dream of the lives 

for more than a century here 

lining the railway, planting their plots 

a tree grown as tall as the roof 

stories in storeys 

always an ear to the train 

the rumble and roll 

no longer the steam 

rattling over the points. 

The life, the life, in a pattern it runs 

express to the seaside, the airport, the south 

timetables, schedules, circadian rhythms 

the daily the weekly unceasing it flows 

and watching the window, a film all unspooling 

city to seaside, allotments and parks, suburbs and fields 

I dream of the lives all lining the railway 

and out of the pen the black ink is flowing 

disgorging the poem in lines and in  verses 

then into the station, a sigh and a silence 

a full-stop complete at the end of the line. 

April 9th 2025 , London to Brighton train

Psyche, I read

Psyche, I read 

Psyche, I read, 

in Greek’s a soul and equally 

a butterfly 

so I remember once I walked astonished 

through a cloud in technicolour 

swirling and spinning by the Indian Ocean 

some large as my hand, settling, unsettling 

like a cinematic scene

magical as Oz. 

Patamouchi in Tamil

Can you hear them float and fly? 

And mariposa, papillon, or German

schmetterling. 

Always a word to set them free

out of the dull and earthbound 

from caterpillar, chrysalis unfurling 

smoothed and elegant 

in perfect symmetry, the silent souls 

ephemeral as beauty as they flutter 

butterfly. 

April 13th 2025 Hounoux 

Today I watch the wind

 Today I watch the wind 

Today I watch the wind jostling the long boughs 

ends curled like Christmas trees, Aladdin’s shoes 

ceaseless the fling

this wind is king. 

In fly the birds, claws clinging as they’re swinging 

the hyperactive blue tit, coal tit, acrobatic crew 

out of the blue. 

That glorious glow, backlit, 

impossible to paint, cerulean

silenced to a sough now 

relief and respite

picture window/ window picture 

lovely through the glass. 

April 3rd 2025 Hounoux 

Once upon a March day

 

Fifteen orchestras she said

Fifteen orchestras she said 

Fifteen orchestras, she said 

in hell

the testament of a cellist, saved by her art

still, eighty years on, surviving 

the beauty of a Christmas rose, white hellebore 

in rocky winter bed

or convolvulus on a bombsite 

truth and beauty intertwined, prevailing 

life saved in the evil, the squalor 

in hell. 

27th January 2025 Hounoux . In honour of Anita Lasker. 

As the season flames

As the season flames 

The world outside, a picture in the window 

shines glorious golds, show-casing smears 

unpolished 

for nothing’s perfect. 

Spiders for example are moving in for autumn 

colonising on tip-toes 

then crafting daily webs 

now hung about with diamonds. 

And field mice too are everywhere in numbers 

dashing and darting 

tiny deceivers glimpsed then gone 

our home now theirs, apparently 

winter quarters chosen. 

October’s first cool nights 

and russets orange reds 

send signals loud as Morse 

It’s time to hunker 

as the season flames in dying fall 

unleaving 

loveliest imperfection. 

20th October 2024, Hounoux 

The Twelve

The twelve 

A whole week we had

so long anticipated, golden glowing 

on all our horizons, and now afterwards 

shining like a dream 

Hot sun, sea September warmed 

the shush and swoosh as shore breakers broke 

and curled and pulled away. 

We sat in the ten euro shade of our well-positioned parasol 

and gossiped endlessly, astonished by thongs laughing 

wriggled into swimsuits, braved the sea’s strong undertow 

for the loveliness of clear blue green. 

Alas for a silent jelly fish, and Michael sudden stung. 

Long days begun with a rendez-vous at 8, the early morning dip 

daily croissant shop, cycle rides and cliff side walks 

of tapas at Blau in the heat of midday ( padron peppers! Chipirones! ) 

Plus two greyer  days of Bridge and indoor games 

amongst the group always someone for a chat 

two Shirley curries, a Tucker quiz, who knew about  ditloids, 

brains well-teased, a trophy for Woznicas. 

As always memorable meals as the sun went down, fire on the water 

no golfers this year to pay our bill! 

And yet in spite of Covid unwelcome uninvited 

headache, sore throat and endless cough cough coughing 

Llafranc 2024, one whole week, stretches out in memory, laughter and thongs

Catalonia and tapas, the blessed company of friends, the twelve 

so long  anticipated. 

Blessings counted, blissful, this year’s magic on the Med. 

October 2nd 2024 Hounoux, for dear friends