October evening – memory

A poem i once wrote and cannot find – probably had a somewhat different take on this!

One October evening my friend and I 
– we must have been about thirteen
the age when everything shimmers
with promise or threat.

One October evening
not warm, not cold,
just a shiver in the air.

We were walking to the farm 
at the top of the hill
on the edge of town.

We told each other stories
of werewolves and demons
and long-legged lovers
– entangled.
Each whisper of wind
each owl call
each creaking branch outlined 
against the blue-blackening sky
fuelled our October-fevered brains.

We caught sight of
a harvest moon hung low 
and orange near the horizon.

We bought half a dozen fresh-laid eggs
and carefully carried them back
to our warm homes
enriched by October.


October silliness

Here comes October
she’s wet and she’s grey
and the colourful leaves are all soggy

but hey ho, tomorrow
is still a new day
so I hope walking won’t be too boggy.

I think I’ll change species
and outwit the norm
and sleep all day long like a moggy.

Stamford goes Georgian

At 9am the skies are grey
the car park stands quite empty
we wander round but little sound
is heard from waking gentry.


By half past ten the drizzle stops
and things are looking lively
some gents and dames in Georgian dress
are posing – very stylish.


Our luck is in, the rain holds off
the stalls set out to sell stuff
a regiment of ne’er do wells
are drilled till they are good ’nuff.


A punch and judy show begins
the children call and giggle
and serving wenches ply their trade,
acrobats jump and juggle.


The carousel keeps turning round,
the music loud and cheery.
Its wooden horses ride the waves –
their paint is gleaming sweetly


A pedlar with his tray of silks
shouts his wares with gusto,
then turns into a highwayman –
tells tales of derring-do.


All weekend the crowds come in,
all ages shapes and sizes –
we walks and chats and buys or sells
we plays, eats, drinks or gazes.


On Monday all the tents have gone
the meadows look well polished,
The town has done a sterling job
the festival has vanished.

Atlanta – not my problem

A city of contrasts, like so many others,
the leafy streets of Midtown,
spacious houses, friendly cafes
parks, art galleries
a few odd people dozing in the park

Close to downtown
missions for the homeless
who drag their life in shopping carts
and black plastic bags.
Some sit listlessly
holding out a beggar’s coffee cup.
There’s little risk of freezing to death
this sultry summer.

There are places to sit,
and even socialise . . .
but I’m apprehensive,

I rationalise –

ten dollars or a thousand will solve nothing
they’ll spend on booze or drugs

“society” must find a solution …
I cannot allow these people to be human
the world is insane, not me.

Fox in a museum

Now, fox – when did you die?
hands removed your skin
and treated it
constructed a skeleton frame
inserted glass eyes
arranged your expression
almost lifelike
almost curious and cunning
fitted your legs like socks 
on artificial limbs
and posed you on a plinth.

Today we’ve drawn you,
lots of us
attracted to the idea of fox
and dead animals don’t move
but have three dimensions
unlike photographs

We give you some new life
you look cute
or fierce
or inquisitive.

Are you plotting some mischief
on chicken coop or rabbit den?

We each made
with our looking, 
some kind of memorial
or mnemonic
of a fox.