Sunday, 25 October 2015


Dear Monty,

Today I was saved by the trees - colour, detail, sun and scent
Heaven sent
Yet in the midst of it - quiet burning

How can a man rescue himself ?

The gold, yellow, copper
The oranges and the reds
The crisp leaves underfoot
The crystal cold water

And yet even being rescued by these - anger still rises

I am a profane man

The drive home from the park
Highlights this heart was formed in the dark
Too slow for some too fast for others
I cave in to the anger displayed through a car window

From peace and joy to a furnace as red as the leaves

Shamed, I sit in the garden
A flock of crows like flying black rags blown by the wind
Flap below the poplar

I watch the light and find salvation in it
Even for a man like me.


Sunday, 18 October 2015

Newport trilogy

 Dear Monty,

Holidays give time for reflection - here are three illustrated poems inspired by the town of Newport Pembrokeshire.



Today have I begotten you

The child feeding the pony an apple over the stile
The sun weakly shining over the sea
The smile

The food and wine shared in a stone cottage above that sea
And below the hill of angels.

He became a little lower than the angels
Today have I begotten you

The sun
The earth
The moon
The tide

When does it end -
This ever learning and never understanding ?
When do we rest from our labours or cease from our endless fight ?


Bright water

Geese flocks noisily feeding
Haunting the estuary with their sound
Stones stand
Norman walls
Ancient church

These walls have stood for longer than the flesh and blood that built them
Perhaps this is why there is desperation and frustration for us mortals who rage
To see the pace at which we age

The power that once drove us to unite
Now slackens
Like the tide
I still fear this powerful pull
Toward dangerous joy

Ultimately the bright water remains
And the decades roll into one blinding moment.


There is a small town
Where the mud laden river runs brown
And mauve streaks the sea
Fading into blue, silver, green

Foxes scent the garden above the bay
Curved, moon-like

Purple spiked reds
Cotton seed heads
Of willow herb float in the evening air

Curlews curl around the estuary
While hunting dogs are sleeping
Dreaming of squirrels
And walks
And living every day.


Sunday, 4 October 2015


Dear Monty,

I am cold in throat and bones.
Weak sun
The garden Italianate in its appearance cheers me

Then as if by some mystical communication
A post-card from Siena
Piazza del Campo
From Charles Hawes

In another strange parallel
He has a cold
And the weather breaks

I'm looking at winter bones
Through thinning leaves -
Each season gives generously

I'm not melancholy.