Here She Comes

Here she comes,
my love.
An elusive feather
cast free to the breeze.
It’s sweeping low,
then soaring high,
yet ultimately drifting
down to me.

Here she comes,
my love.
Plumed as a bird
from paradise.
Would I dare steal a kiss
from those heavenly lips
and rise on her wings
across cobalt skies.

Here she comes
my love.
Waxing scorcery
with her temptress stare.
A clandestine spell,
a flick of a wand,
I am but a slave
In her secret lair.

Here she comes
my love.
Coy look of innocence,
a mask on her face.
As if she didn’t know
that her magical force
stole away my heart
and left not a trace.

2003, February

Plumpton Races

Oh to be at Plumpton races.
What a time I’ll bloody have!
Scive off work,
sod the factory
and them silly buggers
what doff their caps.

Oh to be at Plumpton races.
‘Brace o’ winners I’ll bloody have!
Bike on past work,
sod the factory
and that bastard gaffer
in his bowler hat.

2003, January

Millom Town

And so, Black Combe.
So dark, so daunting.
Towering above the Irish Sea.
Your distant views.
Hazy shadows floating
of Mourne and Man.
But there’s more to see.

It’s that welcome bar
at the foot of the mountain.
That foaming ale
you can’t wait to down.
But the hardest task
in this far flung kingdom
is to find a pub
in Millom Town.

2003, January

Happy Birthday

So, what’s so good
About forty five
That makes it great
To be alive?

Well, there ain’t no school.
No homework nights.
Endless exams.
No playground fights.

No teenage angst.
No spotty chins.
No tiresome parents
keeping you in.

No ‘tidy your room.’
‘Turn out the light.’
‘Where’ve you been till now?’
‘Who were you with last night?’

No first day at work.
No first date nerves.
No learning to drive.
No learning to flirt.

No hunting for homes.
No mortgage to pay.
No vicars in trainers
who have the last say.

There’s no giving birth.
No manhandling prams.
No changing nappies.
No needing four hands.

And there’s also me.
Nothing special, that’s true.
But who’s madly, deeply,
forever in love with you.

2002, January


It’s downstairs first
to his favourite chair.
Then first to the breakfast bar.
Where it’s milk on first,
then shoes on first,
and he’s first to sit in the car.

It’s out of nursery first.
Through the gate first.
Then first to the car once more.
And it’s his turn first,
to talk to me first.
And he’s first to reach gran’s door.

2001, March

Reasons Why I Love You

The essence of your beauty
isn’t blonde hair tumbling down.
Being some skinny catwalk waif.
False pout, put on smile.

The essence of your beauty
doesn’t float on the wind.
Seek fame, covet glory.
Isn’t saddled with dreams.

The essence of your beauty
doesn’t play upon words.
Isn’t wilful with virtue,
nor hits where it hurts.

The essence of your beauty
doesn’t deal packs of lies.
Steal away emotions.
Stupefy, then deny.

The essence of your beauty
doesn’t coast without cares.
Dwell in a mirror.
Pull punches, run scared.

The essence of your beauty
doesn’t ride on the night.
Equate desire to lust.
Seek affection, then hide.

The essence of your beauty
has an innocence that hurts.
A charisma you’ve cloaked
from the eyes of the world.

The essence of your beauty
glows from a source
that’s sealed in my memories,
weaved through my thoughts…
…Was a stark northern shore.
White waves crashing down.
Over a switchback cliff.
A brief moment in time.
When a face in a camera
beamed vibrant with life.
An image captured forever.
I still see in your eyes.

2000, December


You are the light,
the torch,
the beacon bright,
that illuminates all I can see.
You are the glowing orb,
the ball of fire,
a raging flame that burns in me.

You are the storm,
the tempest,
the whirlpool wild,
a tidal wave I cannot flee.
You are the force ten gale,
the hurricane,
that flings me a million leagues.

You are lightning,
a seismic fault,
the quaking earth beneath my feet.
You are a volcano,
the lava flow,
a tornado twisting down on me.

You are the sun,
the stars,
the universe,
a galaxy spiralling out of control.
You are Andromeda,
Orion, the Milky Way,
a supernova that lights up my soul.

1999, October

Tea For Two

‘Well, it’s prime roast beef
and Yorkshire pud,
with brussels, collie and swede.
There’s roast potatoes,
dumplings too,
and it’s served at 6:03.’

‘But I don’t like…’
the big one cried.
‘Be quiet! Whose asking you?’
‘But I still don’t like these, these, these,
and your potatoes
and your dumplings too!’

‘I want dinosaur shapes.
I want some beans.
I want chicken nuggets too.
I want a drink,
red juice, not weak.
And I want to watch a video too!’

‘That’s enough! You sit there.
Lets lift you in here.
Put away those cars and trucks.’
‘But…’ ‘Don’t say a word,
Just sit on that chair
and don’t give me funny looks!’

So tea is served
and the little one claps
and shouts out ‘dum! dum! dee!’
But the big one stands
and exclaims aloud…
‘Put the light on.
I need a wee.’

‘I’ve eaten up!’
The big one proclaims.
‘Ridiculous! You hardly had a thing.’
‘But my tummy’s full
of these, these, these,
so I just want some ice cream.

The little one grins
and spins his dish.
Onto the floor it flips.
He points ‘doo! doo! dow!’
To his gravy stained brow,
offering a dumpling from his fist.

‘Where’s the big one gone?
What’s the little one done?’
Milk splattered everywhere.
‘Will someone come
and wipe my bum.’
Reverberates down the stairs.

1999, February


Remember the sycamore
we climbed in the yard.
The old rusty railings
where kids played at war.
The pub on the corner
the whole street could fill.
The old air raid shelter,
the pens and the ginnel.
Remember our Hollin
as it used to be.
Before it was rubble
and history to me.

1973, June