THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA

Bordeaux Bay, where I've lived for several years, is one of the most attractive coastal areas in Guernsey and during summer it's particularly beautiful.
The photograph, taken by my multi-talented wife, Jane, captures a warm late-afternoon earlier in June.

BARD AT BAY

The granite sea-wall retains heat

so here I choose to pause and watch

the bead-bright fishing-boats at rest,

or bathers, by the slipway, splash,

dive in and scream and reenact

the antics of last year’s warm days.

I try to count the fish that shoal

in hundreds down below the wall:

young mullet, camouflaged and swift,

uncountable, a multitude.

This north coast bay where I’ve washed up,

as flotsam does, is changeable:

tide hastens in, then tide retreats

and coloured boats, like fairground rides,

prance, then lie still, then dance again.

The distant islands, Herm and Sark,

slip in and out of white sea-mist.

and were I painterly, each hour

at Bordeaux surely would surprise

with some fresh image to record.

Now here I sit, the June sun sweet

as kisses on my upturned face,

the granite’s heat a remedy

for old bones nothing else will soothe.

This pleasing warmth, so comforting,

is transitory, gone too soon.

Time speeds away yet still I cleave

to this old sea-wall, granite-rough,

but, hour by hour, its heat will fade

and night will follow soon enough.

BLUES IN TWOS (2)

As England descends into even greater chaos by the day, with the pandemic far from over, race riots in many major cities and unlawful assembly very much the new norm, it's tempting to look on from a safe distance and wonder whether anarchy isn't just around the corner?

PIGEON BLUES

Pity us poor pigeons, please,

forced to perch on roofs and trees

for the statues that we sat on

have been overturned and spat on.

All those worthies of the ages

have now been encased in cages

lest the mobs, now judge and jury,

desecrate them in their fury.

Statues are a pigeon’s toilet:

put one up, we’re sure to soil it

with a coat of guano splatter.

Bring them back, don’t pigeons matter?

BLUES IN TWOS (1)

Guernsey is due to move out of 'lockdown' this coming week and islanders will find themselves faced with the 'new-normal', whatever that might be. 
Will they be in proper shape to do so?

LOCK-DOWN BLUES

What masterpieces, symphonies,

will be revealed when lock-down ends?

What timeless tomes of poetry

or video-photography

have been engendered at this time,

when to so many for so long,

the gift of time was granted them?

Some brand new Renoir or Van Gogh?

Vivaldi, Mozart redefined?

Or will the world just get more dogs

performing silly tricks or fools

dressed up as vegetables or fruit?

Or will this unsought time just be

a total waste while waists grow fat?

I think we may depend on that.

RED UMBRELLA

Bewildering Stories is an international webzine that publishes unusual, often bizarre, tales in the form of flash fiction, serials, short stories, reviews and much, much more. It’s a fascinating site and well worth a visit. It also publishes the occasional poem. My poem Red Umbrella appeared in Issue 856.

RED UMBRELLA 

It rained. 

You held a red umbrella high,

leaned into me and whispered, 

Sod the rain.

I realised that something had begun

that was unstoppable. 

Time’s devoured 

a lifetime of embraces since that day.

Now pain spreads like a red umbrella

as you lean into me. 

The pillow, like an angel’s wing,

kisses my bloodless lips.

A LIFE EXAMINED

'Real friendship, like real poetry, is extremely rare and precious as a pearl.'

Tahar Ben Jelloun

In much the same way as painters create self-portraits or insert small cameos of themselves in group portraits, a poet often pens something of his own image, often disguised, in his poems.

RECLUSE

All scattered to the winds and ways,

like blushing cherry blossom blown,

the friends, he knew when not full-grown,

have vanished from his elder days.

The carelessness of childhood meant

that friendships were a thing to find

then let escape. 

No contract signed.

No deal. 
A currency unspent.

If friendships had been coins or gold,

he might have locked inside a cage

all he had gathered to assuage

the loneliness of growing old.

WHAT ROUGH BEAST ...

Issue 50 of Lighten Up Online, a webzine that specialises in humorous verse, featured two of my poems this month: The Vegan Lion and the poem you'll find below which was submitted to LUPO's competition on the theme of 'Beastly Exchanges'.
Light verse is not greatly respected in literary circles but poetry, like Heaven, is a house with many mansions so there's always space to be found for a skittish sonnet or hilarious haiku.  
My ten-line poem rhymes outwards from the two central lines.

SHE DIDN’T UDDER A WORD …

Some friendly overtures fall flat.

How now brown cow! I called out loud

and rapped the gate but was ignored. 

How now! Again, with dulcet tone,

I importuned the brindled beast,

expecting, well, a moo at least

but she was on her moo-bile phone,

an i-phone zombie in the sward,

so I cleared off, expression cowed,

denied the chance of bovine chat.