James? It’s Uncle Tom.

Voice deep in my answer phone.

Death here is thy sting.

When my mother's hand

walked me through the memories.

Come my son, this way.

Winter sea swimming.

Reason? Frisson of rebirth.

Again and again.

blank page stares at me

pen the words and they might be

ours eternally

Softly piano

on the morning sun's ballet.

The cat purrs, eyes close.

Bronzed and rippling.

Flowing on the ebbing tide.

Fossilized moment.

Spider days dying.

Each loving touch still startling.

Death, where is thy sting?

Trapdoor words unhinged.

Trapdoor words unhinged.

Hung by the neck until read.

The pen is mightier.

Interview on Radio Wales

Catch up radio - interviews start at 34:50 with mentions of Jim the Swim and my piece chatting to Jason Phelps starts from 42:00

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b09fmx5l

Dusk the poet’s muse,

fill my pen with harlot ink.

Writer of the storm.

Deep within your arms

I whisper that I love you.

Weightless in freefall.

Warm light, book on lap.

Twilight draining down the day.

Poets are afoot.

Cat on a cushion.

Sunlight pressing on her fur.

Autumn levitates.

“as” and “like” don’t use.

Let emotion light the fuse.

Explosion of words.

“as” “like” shorthand for

cork in the inkwell of mind.

Let the ink blots speak.

My words skim like stones

disturbing calm lakes of mind.

Ripples in memory.

My hand upon you.

There, there. All fine now my love.

Cat twitching pounce dream.

Caitlyn, cariad,

take my genie magic kiss.

Ere the dark has need.