I stood naked on the step, in the cold rain

that swept up the valley from the sea,

while you poured warm water

onto the back of my neck and the

shivering skin between my shoulder blades.

Do it again, I cried, and you did

until the laughing bowl was empty

and I ran in to dry by a chattering fire.

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You chuckle, crackle, inspire 

Your energy moves me,

You offer me light and warmth

You are my sun,

My reason, my creation.

Never the same,  

You sway, dance, hypnotise

Seduce with your desire.

Your provocative play,

Makes me steam, melt,

Burn with temptation.

A greedy mistress,

You roar, consume, require  

Nought but disintegration,

Your hot breath, your hiss,

Reduces me to elemental fury

And black resignation.

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You rise alone at dusk, 

sick with longing;

a melancholy romantic,   

pale reflection of desire,

intent on seduction.

Your glance, inscrutable,

beguiles with suggestion,

creates shades of possibility,

among fragrant borders,

transplanted with lust.

You suck tsunamis from the deep

That sweep me from the beach    

to drown in your mystery,

that cold, silent accomplice

that fate cannot  deny. 

40 years ago this week, Neil Armstrong and Edwin ‘Buzz’ Aldrin landed and walked on the moon.  ‘One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.’    

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across the secrets

of the ghyll,

the pond whispers,

trees tap, rocks -

the very earth

turns darker still

and sense is flooded

with despair. 

And after the rain,   

a drowsy peace,    

the melancholy air

warms, thickens,

grows darker, greener.

Buds burst,

leaves stretch,

reach out

to fill the gaps.  

Close your eyes,

rest, listen, feel  

how soft lamentations

of blackbirds

heal the wound,

and when resonance

reminiscence yields,

anguish fades,

loss is less,

and hope flickers,

takes wing,

wagtails dance

and gleeful swallows

sweep the air,  

while the cob glides

the darker water

and the pen lies sleeping

on her raft.

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you like the light,

the freedom of dawn, when

scampering winds shepherd clouds

over the hills of your dreams.     

Not for you, the beguiling song of the blackbird,

The one you cannot trust.  

You prefer the high rise worry of larks,

the pied piping of oystercatchers,

the querulous slide of the curlew.

Not for you, the hooting melancholy wood

but the thrill of the moor;

the paraglide of pipits,  the thrum

and squeak of roller coaster snipe,       

the tumble and whoop of plovers.  

Not for you the furtive stoat in its crevice,

in the windy wall.

You prefer the clear lines of the wheatear,

a bright soliloquy in pastel, a promise in slate,

an innocent primrose gift.                 

Romance is not for you; too intense.

You’ve no time

to waste on pain and sighs.

You want no make believe, no lies,

just constancy ….. and life.

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that and grooming, of course. 

But then, the two frequently go together;   

Good feathers so often  make for the best houses

He’d found the perfect situation;

wonderful views, just off the flyway,

a ledge that extended improbably outwards

like a beak from the face of the cliff.

Concave in profile, a shallow groove,

that held his body like a spoon,

Lead-lined, with space enough for two   

and the eggs wouldn’t roll off. 

Head to head and groovy, they preened,   .

Locked beaks, they churred, they chuckled,

But passion always ignores the detail,

And the devil lurks in the detail

Water problems; it wasn’t so much rising damp

as a tumbling torrent.  One summer storm

and nest, eggs, chicks the lot would be in the sea.   

But they were in love, and love is always in denial           

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If she had loved him more … or less.

If they had been honest or not so.

But he wasn’t, she didn’t, they weren’t. 

And so their thwarted passion feeds 

the fury of her disappointment.

What she would once love to distraction,

she now hates to destruction . 

All has become nothing at all.

Anger disavows the love, denies

the terrible assault of compassion

that would prise open the wound.

What she once craved, she must deny.

What was too close, must now be distant.

The hurt must be transferred; sanity

restored with shallow pride.

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