Wistful potted plant,

yearning, just one bee for me?

Outdoors, life flies by.

Red dressing gown boys

intent on model railway.

Ghost of Christmas past.

Cloud crows nagging nerk

Cloud crows nagging nerk

at the plough's long stony screech.

Winter frosts to chew.

Of my childhood haunts,

where I played haunted houses.

Why did we not see?

Went back to my home.

Found I'd never been away.

But they had all gone.

I sit, the cat sits.

Alone with our thoughts.

The music plays.

Know that I can be,

if I were writing it now.

Great poets are.

Infinite poems,

readers, interpretations. 

Mine in fine night eye.

Sigh drizzle swirls,

where once floated sunbeam dust.

Year composting down.

Not studied English.

English has not studied me.

Ne'er the twain shall?

Musical wormholes

transport us to the heavens

My mind a sponge

So many roads at the

So many roads at the

intersection of infinity.

Everyone the right one

Wild garlic flowers

Two feathers, for spring has flown

Warm soup simmering

Poet at sunset

avid reader of the dawn

Our pages are numbered

When life’s pot is full

stir it and cook a poem

Reading hand in hand

Feelings into words

Poetry no mystery

Reader the mirror

Momentary the

red admiral flutters wings

Autumn sunshine caught

Sun on my iPad

Is this dappled world real

Grandchildren will know

A let-me-in leaf 

dancing on a window web

Sun-splashed I sleep

Violin my heart

Both in autumn colours

The year is dying

The antler trees shed

Powerful forces at play

Winter's period

Poet at sunset

avid reader of the dawn

Our pages are numbered

A wormhole in Wales

R S and Dylan Thomas

The vortex of words

Cat stops with paw raised

in the first long slant of dawn

Sniffing a sunbeam

New long poem

The ghost of an idea

http://baitthelines.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/the-ghost-of-idea.html

High bird leaves, sad dusk

over these incessant tides

Autumn in full spate

Long shadow bowls green

Sun the golden pavilion

Autumn is biased

The old man's fingers 

claw the rattle fringed linen

Sea spittle meets sand

Sea swimmer's Everest

Salt under the back scratcher

Seaweed in the bath

White cottage, grey smoke

above a cold pebble bank

Bare winter trees ask

Swansea boy Dylan

Always under his mantle

Write you are then like

.

The man with cancer

daily swimming in the sea

Damned if it will