embrocation 

the sprain migrates

an idea

 falling leaves

the temple cat is sitting

all is gold

 when you stop 

creating transience 

it doesn’t 

baiting

the mind’s trout stream

waiting

 we closed his eyes

the man who said he wouldn’t die

would not close his eyes

what was the last thing he saw

he didn’t bite my finger

 north wind

pigeons without necks

in the silver birch

 a tumble dryer

is a liar about time’s

damp squib

 not to be sneezed at

a wild winter sea swim

cures a cure

 cat’s tray

see to the washing

winter chores

 reading the poets

not to write like the poets

but like myself

 the cat

and the sparrows 

twitching

 i just thought

there is no outside to a thought

what do you think 

 unfortunately 

it was a small funeral

all his pals were dead