as eyes seize it
in a pose at repose i propose that i am
the moon
inside so many poems
ringing bells
if you live long enough
everyone will think you have a secret
like you once did
heavy rain
a fig on the cobblestones
crying
footprints
so it was there
morning dew
there are two dawns
in a garden with a mirror’s
perspicacity
of course i protest
how could i tell my children
that i didn’t cry
of course it’s of over
why
did you think it would last forever
the goalposts are down
there are daisies on the field
away the lads go
yesterday’s men always know they were right
beautiful flowers
survival of the fittest
rose-tinted glasses
one blossom falls
another bud slowly opens
new acquaintances
am who i am
because my genes are torn
torque of the devil
a cat leaps
a cat sleeps
a child
digs up the dead frog
to see its bones
we named all the trees
shared on so many levels
the seasons of life
some people drink
i write poems
delirium tremens
the flame of a new candle starts off small
armageddon
what’s the point in poetry
why breathe
for when our prayers have failed
we realise there are no gods
cloudy morning
patches of blue sky
that aren’t there
tortoise-like
i keep my head down
a thick shell
not enticing them out
i decide to stay in mine
thunderstorm
under the sofa
the cat purrs
when ivy climbs
the lichen covered tombstones
we get a better view
a calming morning
how many an acer leaves
have passed this way
they tamed the world
but time waited and waited
the ends justified
the apple blossom
on the roof of the greenhouse
is turning brown
the sea and the sky
gave me two horizons
and a line of clouds
global warming
put your money into gold
fiscal meltdown
heritage site
the castle walls have railings
please mind your head
rain bridge
what does rain feel like
asked the fish
already warm
sun on the pagoda
azaleas
aye AI
it wrote about love
and we destroyed every word
we loved doing that
a lock is addicted to the release that is the key
modern poetry
having asked ‘hi siri take a note’
moves on
septuagenarian
the perfection of lament
in a child’s eyes
it’s raining
shall i write that book
perhaps tomorrow
finding no answers
i stop asking questions
time will tell
when they call it doom scrolling then we are doomed
along the sea shore
one has to stop and stare
one has to keep on going
the last bud fell
before it had opened
it was over
twitter nit picking
hands that hold the poem books
just look at their nails
sunday afternoon
the green is dripping
camelia flowers
the foghorn aye the foghorn
many many tears
there is this road
it comes down out of the mist
to breathe the sea