Such good friends are we
                        are I and she
The devil and I
                        just she and me
We talk of this ... we talk of that
Yet always laughter breaks our chat
We hate each other
                        I and she
With a love enduring as none can see


The words that race from lips
So fast they can't be caught
The depths suddenly plumbed
When rhythm's lost in thought
The knowing all and being all
Of vine leaves worn by right
Wake the everyday futility
Of penetrating night
The searching for that reason
Through the pursuit of the heart
Before innocence is overthrown
As the goddess plays a part
The oneness of our love
When myself returns my sight
That experience so exquisite
Immortality's bite
The chasing down the years
Catch the magical in print
Before the age old suffering
Makes memory extinct
Bodies loved must minds unlove
Can kisses not unite
The meeting of us lovers
Cast in virgin light
The unknowing of what they do to you
The unfeeling of all that hurt
Humanity is a stranger race
Communication inert
Soft dance thru the midst of them
Side stepping from their fight
Intent on the life's pursuit
A dream born by right


When I may write of her
That made me that I am
My rhymes need no more run
Her self enough of flair
I paint her picture not
Scribbling another's face
The reason for this waste
Unknown lost but sought
I knew her in a moment
When our eyes met the first time
A trance yet twenty yards away
As met fate sprang my mind
To read there's something there
To sense that all's not words
As the need for finding breaks
The hunted with the hounds
Is not the same as meeting one
Was sprung by birth to stars
Yet I may not write of her
That taught me I was real
Could the beauty be all mine
A reflection of myself
But that's not true 'twas there
Your poetry in the night
As you laughed and spoke till dawn
And I worshipped at your sight
I hear your voice no more
Yet I seek it through my life


You in the dim morning light
Laughing and staring
Your hair fluffed and shoulders bare
As you listened in the morning
To a mind racing its patterns
With no understanding
Appeasing its gods
Mouthing its prayers
And you listened in the morning
As the cool hard floor
Touched at tense fingers
Beckoning in the dawn
And you spoke of a someone
Who perhaps loved a someone
But you were so young in the morning
Who taught you this game?
But was love in the morning
As talked of another
And the eyes told of wonder
And tongues trapped together
As we prayed to our own gods
To tell them we were there
And you in the morning
As it went away


Pawns of a century's neglect
The trees bare of leaves
As an Autumn's passing
My faded heart I bury with the rose
Relics of day's contentment
This house --- the carriaged clatter
Oil lamps --- candle at the door
Greatcloaks smothering the visitor
Here an intruder from generations
Sips sherry in the afternoon
A refuge from time's momentum
Here where sacred hearts impaled old wounds
This Georgian mansion shelters tapestry
The plans for derangement
Framed in a lonely coffin
I would pass this way at the year's end
Clomping through snow --- up the gravelled path
And ring the rusty doorbell
If you were to come it would be the same
We would rest in the drawing room
Visitors on a journey
Found haven in the world's youth
And if you did not come
I would idle over my afternoon
Playing kings and queens in memory
We have so very little
Red ivy creeps the walls
But all our memory now faded
The heart is buried with the rose

Fresca a'Maying

girl of the winter table,
so impatient to commence the feast;
can you tell me where the bones are
that wrappt a cover round my chest?

silver cutlery, white cloth;
your empty glass filling with wine
as admirers watch the bubble grow
of a quick tongue's genteel rapine.

coffee sippt, a long liqueur;
now you listen at intellects
who but for their brains but for their balls
would suffice your evening's sex.

girl of the winter table,
with me you are silent deaf and warm;
in my dreams you bring that body
wearing love's poison beneath charm...

she has come for my heart;
to remove it.
salve of all the talents,
I kiss your smooth forehead;
the lilies of the valley bless you.
my scarlet rose she stole for her cheek:
my purple blood she drew for her cloak:
my white heat she fanned as her cover:
desolate the breeze grips the moor.
there are no tombs where our dead rest.
blow ashes in the wind;
without a heart I will haunt the moon:
never again will be that soft evening,
when sang the lay bareheaded in the ruined choir.

There was once a rumour that roses die;
many believed and sought to hack at stems.
They were wrong: life carries its own roots.
She is so secret that one can but whisper...

I raised her to the stirrup with her proud smile;
laughing she careless split my hot cheek.
They are right: those who choose Achilles.
She is so secret that her bed is unknown...

To redeem my heart I pledged my soul;
the price was asked and the broker paid.
They are safe: those who will outlive me.
She is so secret that no man may own her...

I have no secrets: my dead eyes are insane.
She is so secret I choose love as her name...

the chisel was of marble ---
for the soft warm face shines
with the clarity of the ancients ---
her sculpted bones shape my heart.

to stroke her amber felt
would be a snatch at Aphrodite's robe ---
high heads and white pillows
are rightly our select.

more to your tongue than talking --- girl,
let my fingers warm your spine.
it will be evening soon
and we'll play at sparrows on the marshes.

her warm body is lying in sleep's grip.
relaxation tinges her delicate smile.
her thighs shift as dream places her cheek
silently on a lover's chest.
she twists in old fashioned ways:
casting out a hand; opening her legs.
then she rolls back into a wound ball
wrappt with all the tensions of yesterday.
and the moonlight watches
as a tear breaks the beauty of her smile.
one damp tear strays to the outside
from her world.
all who love her watch and treasure.
she can give so little.
but so much.


Is the processional headed by a black-robed cowl?
Green dapple and blue sky alternate above.
Jumbled we stumble along in the following crowd
Baked with dirt and the sweat of noontime sun.
The cobbled path up from the river is carved in mud.
Houses old and treacherous.
In our hands we carry the pike.
In our hearts we carry the fear.

            The lady walks the cloister;
            brown robed, high boned.
            She looks not from side to side.
            Her face stares at mystery.

A twenty mile march from Raby,
Our track stained by a blood-white rose.
Now the drums beat in the open square.
Ahead squats the cathedral block;
Toy stones collected for giant's play.
And ebullient we dash.
Thru love to consecrate our groins.
Thru love to consummate our lives.

            The girl stands impatiently;
            dark shirted, amber breeched.
            She does not wait the future.
            Her hand paws at her right hip.

Up the great nave we stride to the cross;
The hymn stills and the chantry empties.
The coolness of the stone breathes peace.
Before the altar we raise our knives
And stab and stab and stab and stab.
A sodden mop of fair hair.
A brown back oozing crimson.
Our joyful hearts will be worms' meat.

            The imp sits with her mischief;
            red sweater, red tongue.
            She has forgotten herself.
            Her nose twitches at answers


In your amber pants
And the shirt off your back
You floated in front of me,
A vision of all that's good in the world
A woman waiting to be set free.
I plighted my troth
To your worn black boots
And whistled at the bones of your face,
I gave my heart to your stony stare
As you thought the place a disgrace.
And I woke your heart
So you smiled back
When you forgot who you were you see
And my lithe brown body stirred your flesh
As you thought of loving me.
Then out of the blue
A poem took your heart
And it became you and me,
I don't really know what I did
But `Durham' married you and me.
We didn't have long
But we had it all
Apart from ourselves in the night,
And I'd do it again without a second thought
Because of your sheer delight.
Your smile and your heart
And the love in your eyes
Are such things that hardly happen ever
And I still remember that marvellous day
When you took my heart forever.


In your pink dress
Your body looked great
Your bottom curved out
Like a ship of state,
With red and yellow socks
Which seemed bizarre
You spread out your arms
And loved who you were,
Your heart was alive
And who'd done it to you
I purred and I purred
You were it, my Sue.


I never dreamt I would live so long...

The dream was of the journey South from Camelot
In the springtime morning when we left the citadel;
It was a royal road glistening in white purity
As we put off the fables of our youth to enter the real world.
There is a strident truth in the joys of adolescence
As a horsedrawn sledge coasts over the Northern snow
Bringing the Lord to escort his Lady thru the wintry night;
But now we see the Spring and all is tears and lamentation.

It is a great downcoming to leave behind the two bright eyes
And journey into the world of men where a happy poem
Is as rare as an interrupt in the great crashing waves
Of the sea; as the white horses eternal batter our hopes.
Breeding is the ruin of it. The ills of the parents
Multiply on the children and the weight snaps the mind.
Better never to be loved at all than to know what is missing.
The black horsemen skirt the outskirts of the sane destiny.

To be alone, at one, with the greenwood in the days of infancy
Before the Lady in her ragamuffin clothes inherited the poetry.
To be joined in the embrace of eyes when eating one another
Is insufficient. To realise that the deep, the truly-felt,
Is an occasional event in life; not to be lived from day to day.
To understand that age does not suit a cavalryman
Who would rather be urging his black horsemen onto fresh conquest:
There is a time when the charge stops and it is necessary to ponder.

I never dreamt I would live so long...


a lost little boy hears the wind sighing
in the high trees. it reminds him of the
anguish in his empty heart. from what he
has read in books he believes that the lady Love
will be his salvation. he looks forward to
the day when he will meet her.

the absence of God; the absence of Love;
the purpose of life is the living of it.
the horsemen ride past the yellow forsythia.
they ride past the purple lilac. they ride
past the pink columbine. the horsemen ride
past the blue lavender. the black horsemen ride.

the lovely linking with the lady. the white Guelph
adored her intellectual beauty. he praised her spirit.
she left him alone to face the absence.

build a temple to contain her. the ceremony
of the rose bushes and the blue periwinkle. but
brilliant heathers are overcome by long tough grass.
the stained stones seem surrounded by weeds.
never was a chapter more forcibly closed. the
gooseberry and the bramble run riot. the patrician
lady paints her garden-fence white. they will burn ---
my ruins --- as burn the fires of Hell. where I live.
the patrician lady leads the way back into life.


The grey ships are pulling out on the dawn tide,
The grey ships are leaving.
You sit in your citadel by the sea
Watching the grey ships leaving.
The city is burning all around you
Buildings crashing down, men dying
And the fighters are leaving.
Grey ships slipping out to sea on the morning tide,
The fighters are leaving.
As you sit in your citadel by the sea
Grey ships leaving.
The barbarians are over the wall
There are men dying
And the city is burning.
You weave your patterns on the page
Recording details of grand events
Watching the fighters leaving.
The barbarians are in your citadel,
They took your heart long years ago
As you sat in your citadel weaving,
And the fighters are leaving.
Grey ships pull out on the dawn tide
Sliding swiftly over the sea
While you sit in your citadel
I climb on the last ship and wave goodbye,
Loving you,


I want you here with me now,
In your black sweater and your amber jeans,
The love bursting out of your smile; your heart.
This Hallowe'en we begin a journey,
through the ways of the sisters and the brothers.
This is the wild hunt, the seeking;
Wrapping up the immortal in words,
for once and for all.
Taking my seat at the top table,
Your bright eyes flashing with approval.
I incantate your presence at the feast, rightly.
It is of the Lord and of the Lady,
Invoked from open graves in harmony;
Their skulls lined by worn flesh,
Their blood cooled.
My black cat will be ferocious tonight,
as he dances the magician's tumbledown paths.
And I will begin the antique story
of wonders, of enchantments, dreams;
Cheeks pressed to windowpanes eyeing the full moon.
I am peeling a peach as I sit at the table,
Oversated by the first half of my life.
The little cat sits waiting for his supper.
You sit and bathe in the glow of love,
I have summonsed you up out of the darkness.
Your eyes and ears are to listen to felicitous majesties,
Sonorous, gilded; rituals from childhood:
It is ducking for apples and the guisers' party piece.
For a rich skeleton is spread before me,
And I will munch it and crunch it bone by bone.


I drive past the brand-new sign to the village
And think of you twenty years ago
Lying in your bed
Listening to the thunder
Rumbling up Limpley Stoke valley.

You were always there to see me next morning
For re-assurance
That the shapes in the night
Would not be tempting you again
And leading you to disaster.

Those nights green lightning under the moon
Shone in at my window
And I would lie awake thinking of you
Knowing your awareness
A presence in the dawn.

These nights I see your eyes
Sparkling and brilliant
Enchanted forever by a dream,
The two of us,
Closer than the closest skin.

The wind and the snow

You took my children away from me,
They lie dead in your belly,
Dead as the wind and the snow.
You saved your cunt for a better man,
Dead as the wind and the snow.
They could have been playing with me today
Safe in their beds, snuggled up, home,
Dead as the wind and the snow.
There are no words for what you have done,
Dead as the wind and the snow.
I only know you loved me so,
Dead as the wind and the snow.
Is it really better not to be born?
Dead as the wind and the snow.
And I only know you loved me so
Is it better not to be born?
Dead as the wind and the snow.
You took my children away from me
You saved your cunt for a better man
It is better not to be born
Dead as the wind and the snow,
Dead as the wind and the snow.


And the fuck is still burning in me,
All my life it has been there
The fuck burning in me.
I'm getting old, the prick's not so stiff
But the fuck still burns in me.
It burns for you for I love you so
The fuck still burns in me.

Susan's Garden

It is a wilderness.
I built it.
I planted three blackcurrant bushes,
A gooseberry bush and a bilberry.
I planted two giant blackberry roots.
On the ridge below it
I planted over twenty heathers,
Rich in colour and variety.
Now it is wild roses and convolvulus
Interspersed with blackberry fangs.
I planted the wild roses as a border.
They have encroached.
I never go there now.
I used to sit on the wall with Fritz Cat beside me
Looking out over Susan's garden
Down across the rooftops of Bath.
Now it is finished.
The convolvulus attacks my forsythia and lilac.
I let it climb.
These last ten years I have lost interest.
There is no dynamism in me
As when Fritz was a kitten
And I used to work till dusk in the garden.
Now it is a wilderness,
Like Coatham when I was a child.
I carry my past with me.
It will always be Susan's garden.


`No-one ever loved me before' I told Fiona.
`I feel I have known you all of my life' she said.
The lights are turning on all over Europe.

`She will always want what she can never have.'
`If you behave like an idiot
You get treated like an idiot.' Comments.

`You can never tell what's in a woman's mind';
Such losses echo centuries.
The horsemen gallop thru the Brandenburg Gate.

Poetry is a way of asking to be loved,
It is strictly for the damaged heart.
Fritz Cat is waiting for his Whiskas.

Twentyfive years and nobody:
Susan said `touching, feeling, commitment etc.
Is so much more satisfying than dreams.

' The Ogre is learning how to speak:
`Liberty, fraternity, equality' spread across the European home.
I am of old Europe and live alone.

It will be a homecoming from the dark night,
Dogs and cats will be fat and fed.
The lights are turning on all over Europe.
`Must be love' said Penelope.


The dying gold of an Autumn day.
This house is tumbledown,
It never gets dusted;
And the back porch leaks
Letting water run down the outside wall.
The bath taps have also leaked
Staining the downstairs wallpaper,
And a washer needs renewed
As a tap drips continuously.
My mother will never come here again.
She is too frail to make the journey.
Instead she sits in her chair at the nursing home
Living in her memories.
In my imagination I see Susan walking up the path,
An earnest smile on her face,
Skirts flapping;
But now that can never be.
Only Fritz Cat remains,
Waiting anxiously for his tea.
The dying gold of an Autumn day
Turns into Winter;
I write poems.


`You had all of me --- in your own way.'
There is only one way.
Through the eyes,
The interlocking eyes.

To swim in another person's head,
To have them occupy you.
That is the only way.
It is in the eyes.

Some things last forever.
I fed you love till it flowed out of your eyes.
Then we exchanged souls.
Now I can never be alone.

Always with you.
You have all of me.
It was the end of a search.
Now we have the after-time.

Wisdom was the prize.
We share that.
A short walk on a Spring afternoon
Taught me I had a home.

The worstest thing

The stars shone out of Susan's eyes
`May this last forever'
`I will love you all of my life'

The worstest thing is what she did;
Now I am damned by the rainbow,
Outcast as from a mother's love.

`How could you do what you did?'
`You cut off your nose to spite your face'
Such losses echo centuries.

It is Winter in the North Country.
Fog prowls the high-hedged lanes,
My metallic-blue Citroën takes me to the pub.

I sit and drink the guest beer, Adnam's from Suffolk.
Alone I watch the coals glow in the open fire,
I was not born to be an audience.

I have no proper home;
I camp out in other people's lives,
Once my eyes followed a shooting star.

Woman is an enigma.
I wonder what they want: a professor perhaps,
I listen to Elgar in an English room.


Before love,
Before words, before Penelope,
The sad little boy walks down the dark corridor
On the cold flagstones to the empty hall
To stand staring at the great stag's mounted head;
The tines dance in the flame of the paraffin lamp.
He knows there is something very wrong with the world.
A bleak New Year's moon looks in from the staircase window.

Ten years later he meets her,
Love at first sight, the face of Nefertari,
Now his heart starts emerging from the chrysalis.
She talked all night; he listened,
He learns that love is real,
It's what's been missing all his life,
Glasgow is a magic place.
Penelope paves the way to breakdown.

The words start to come with Fiona.
She smooths her breeches and tells him to write.
I turn these women into poems:
The first time I saw Susan, in Edinburgh ---
Hair tousled --- in her mauve suit;
Time is measured in half-lifetimes,
Since that sad little boy heard the tunes of the horsemen,
Since that young man fell in love so deeply
He will never recover,
Since the grim New Year beckoned on the sacrifice.

What is best is what is old.
My life has been a raw bleeding wound,
Healed I look back and savour its richness.
Poetry is love, and it is ever new to write it.


The moon haunts me,
Comes visiting in the small hours,
Hoist in the sky
Far above echo and recrimination.
She floats on her tidal wave,
white as the whitest white horse,
Peering down
Pickled with emotion.
Without my spectacles
Her face is not so sharp
As it used to be,
But I have memorised every pore of her skin
And still see her vigilant in my cause.
We have traded paths for forty years
And we will watch each other
As the sun goes down.
Beyond knowledge, beyond memory
She is the constant of my life;


I am the shape-maker
electing out of the murmuring voices
assonance and rhythm
I weave from the singularity of love
triptychs of before and after.
The constant spell amazes me
as I fashion this glottal sympathy.
Never to look back and say it was.
Never to look forward and repeat the question.
It was there in the moonlight
as I brushed a tear from your cheek,
Your eyes lit by Paradise,
as you asked yourself where the rainbow lay.
The lost years of youth burn brightest
in the elation of your calm intelligence;
Absurd before and after.
Trapped together for eternity
by an absence of words,
The eyes, making a mockery of language
at the feast of the soul.
You, so pretty.



I wrote you a poem.
I walked up to the pub this afternoon
Complaining about my emptiness,
How I had nothing inside of me.

When I remembered
Watching Eugene Onegin from Glyndebourne
And Lensky going to his fatal duel,
And how I had then used Melvyl

In far-off California
To determine your presence, while
Sitting in Bath at my computer.
So I wrote you a poem.

I only write love poems.
This one has to be circumspect.
Something between Rabbie Burns
And The Ball of Kirriemuir.


I looked your family name up in Melvyl,
the University of California Library Catalogue,
twelve million volumes.

and there was your grandfather's dissertation
from Leyden, 1911,
title in unreadable Dutch.

your father's and your mother's books,
your cousin's novels in Holland.

And finally your own little set of publications.
I have only one book in California.

Now I know you are back in London.
Working away as ever with the children round you.

It is good for you to be home.
You must visit.
There are twenty years and a dozen books to discuss.


It was all done for you.
I really should have died
last summer when I was on 95% oxygen
with two collapsed lungs
and the doctors and nurses shaking their heads
after catching MRSA at my operation.

Now I haven't the nerve to send you
the copies of my new books
after the way you played up over
those email messages back in '96.
The whole business hardly seems worth the bother.
I'd have been better off dead.

I don't want to write poems
so American college students
can scrabble over my guts.
I get a reader every 15 minutes on the Internet
but they are totally anonymous to me.
Nobody's sleep under so many eyes.

You must think me insane to write to you
when I haven't seen you in twenty years
but it was all done for you.
Even the lies of Hulagu's Ride.
Put them off the scent.
I'll miss you with the horses and hounds on Boxing Day.

Mary of Arkansas

I sit on a wooden bench in Bath Abbey
Listening to the English Consort
Play Bach's `Air on a G-String'
And think on Mary, Queen of Arkansas.
A Hetherington reiver from Cumberland
Of sturdy peasant stock;
She possesses a cat Apollonia,
A daughter Jenny, and a taste for tequila.
Mary of the Songs falls asleep on pine needles,
Buys bric-a-brac at auctions,
And has her head full of dreams.
Earlier I sat on a bench in the Crystal Palace pub
And drank a pint of Royal Oak
Eager for the taste of Old Man Bach.
Mary of Bernera was brought up on the harp.
Poetry and personality her unseen attributes
I marvel at the book of laments derived from her illiteracy.
Mary MacLeod, Nurse to the MacLeods of Dunvegan, Skye.
Mary, Queen of Arkansas,
With your brass bedstead and roll-top desk,
Your yardstick is virility,
Counting your orgasms as beads.
Mary of the Songs,
Come to me in the dark hours of the night.
Let your touch be smooth and strong,
Muse of the ancient ways.
The music pierces my soul,
I will live forever.


Mary, the April witch,
Spins words from a gossamer web
Into tapestry for my ears.
At five in the morning
She floats from her woods in Arkansas
To my window.
There she taps and enters
Bringing with her the goodness of sustenance.
We lie in the morning light,
Her touch like thistledown.
We are in each other forever
Until she departs for her chores.
There is milking to be done,
Chickens to be fed.
I lie in my bed and love a dream.
I pinch her bottom as she heads out the window
To make her real.
She is Mary, Queen of Arkansas.

A Mary-poem

I walked up the hill
From my Poetry Evening
Where I had recited my two little Mary-poems
To great acclaim
When I found her on my doorstep
Clutching my cat Ludovic to her.
`How did you get here? Mary', I asked.
`Continental drift', she answered.
So, thinking it was a long way from Arkansas,
I took her in for a coffee.
She floats in and out of my life like a sunbeam.
It is always merrier when she is there.
She has duties and is always busy,
But give her ten minutes and she can gossip.
She is my guiding light,
She knows everything.
Sitting in the wildflowers she eyes me at my computer,
`It has to be done with love', she says.
Let me make up a Mary-poem for her.


...written in Edinburgh New Town in the year nineteen sixtyeight after watching Bobby Kennedy's funeral on television, beginning with Ray Bradbury's story of Picasso...

a lost little boy scrambling the sanddunes
his dog beside him
bounding pawmark to pawmark
then over the last ridge
and there
the sea
deep blue eternity
with an occasional white ripple
and the waves beating the foreshore
the empty arc of golden beach
curving into evening

and there on the sand
a small dot
it's a little old man
a baldheaded gnome
with goblin ears
dancing with his stick
round and round he goes
patterns in the sand
shapes grotesque fantastic
drawn in the sand
with his walking stick
the little boy follows
hopping in time
as the little man twirls
swirling his tale
as he spells his shapes
pictures in the sand
and the little boy learns
as the tide comes in
of a blonde goddess
who rode horses
and even now
was splashing in the foam
with tight blue jeans
and a gilded body
she eyed the horses
and did everything wrong

the little man etched
her beautiful spirals
the tears flowing
for she'd loved him so
and he'd only seen her
one dark wet evening
sitting at the local picture show

and black widows weeping
tears and tears
for a young man prancing
a tribune's path
and the black widows weeping
tears and tears
for a tribune of the people
who spoke his part

and the little boy followed
hopping in time
as the baldheaded gnome
jigged and danced
in the fading sun
furiously scratching
to finish his tale
as the water crept
slyly up the shore

the gold headed girl
and the whole world weeping
she wouldn't take love
for she needed it so

and the young man with a vision
dreaming and doing
a stranger in his country
for he loved it so
standing for his people
a wisp of glory
love thy neighbour
a long long way to go

and black widows weeping
tears and tears
for a tribune of the people
who spoke his part

and the little man weeping
for he had promised the moon
to pay her a visit
and sing a sad tune
for tight blue jeans
and white horses in the sand

a great man spitting blood
crushed by metal hooves
ripped by the cavalcade
shattered for his fame
and the black widows weeping
tears and tears
for a tribune of the people
who spoke his part

with his pointed ears
and his walking stick
the little man twirled
and spun upon the sand
as he etched his tale
while the waves beat in
and the little boy followed
hopping in time
with his dog beside him
and his head bent down

and the black widows weeping
tears and tears
for the great young man
who spoke his part
and made them a dream
for to act their part
but was ripped by the cavalcade
crushed by hooves
for loving his neighbour
a long way to go

and the little man cried
and wept his tears
for a blonde goddess
who even now
was splashing in the foam
with tight blue jeans
and a gilded body
who did everything wrong
and the little boy followed
hopping in time

and the black widows wept
tears and tears
for a young man prancing
a tribune's path
and the black widows wept
tears and tears
for a tribune of the people
who spoke his part
ripped by the cavalcade
crushed by hooves
for having a dream
which hadn't been thought

and all was silent
and the little man danced
furiously scratching
to finish his tale
as the little boy followed
hopping in time
with his dog beside him
and his head bent down

the little man wept
and the little man cried
for a gold headed girl
who wouldn't take love
for she knew herself
from where she came
that the black widows wept
tears and tears
for a great man's blood
shattered for his fame
for having a dream
which hadn't been thought
a tribune of the people
who spoke his part

and the little boy followed
hopping in time
with his dog beside him
and his head bent down
as the tide came in
and covered the shore
occasional white ripples
on the empty shore
as the little man cried
and sadly went home

the little boy watched
and patted his dog
then they looked at the sea
and trotted off ---

Douglas Clark/ Love Poems/ Benjamin Press, 69 Hillcrest Drive, Bath BA2 1HD, UK/