the fingers we count on

splayed as an open palm

can create a fist

 lost is the state 

that was well hidden in youth 

looking everywhere

 the poet

wrote many fine lines

then he died

 Boxing Day

using the Christmas wrapping

to light the fire

 tides come in and out

the ocean’s indifferent

to my sighs

storm bella 

the chimney is whistling

her sad tune

 reading poetry

is putting on your armour

before the news

 the furrowed field

is awaiting a new crop

spring follows winter

 log fire

saying goodbye to the night

the curtains closed

 take me home now

I think I’ve seen enough now

now don’t you dare

watched Casablanca 

thought of all those migrants

no room at the inn

 not playing it Sam

of all the counties in all the world

and they want to get into mine

 ZX 81

go sub hexadecimal 

we said

 winter swim

blessing the thermal layers

on my walk home

 listen with mother

imaginations together

in different places

 table corner

there’s  a lump on my head

fingers the child 

one can never be sure

two are certain

until a third disagrees

 pandemic

the only thing we get to share

is death

rain

mountain, lake, river, sea

rain

 in the setting sun

the branch’s silhouette

is smiling again

 clotted cream

cat washing over her ears

christmas again

 they cease to exist

then there are the memories

that exist to cease

 the end of an affair

seed falling on stony ground

tears were never enough

 brexit exit

all are souls on death row’s

vacancy 

 those turned down corners

how life insists on memories

i think i thought

 covid funeral

undertakers with black masks

slow realisation

 last leaf of autumn

flickering on my closed eyes

naughty sunshine

 such naughty boys

snowballs with hidden stones

stinging cheeks

 wind dispersal

the murmuration of thoughts

on the songs of life

 wide eyed wireless 

listening to the morse code

come in tokyo

 ordinary things

find my imagination

soaring 

 on a wet slate roof

all the grades of a grey day

in their sliding

 the palaces of nostalgia are written on rotting words

 down all of time’s days

the golden coins of knowledge 

how soon they are spent

 pandemic 

the still life painting 

of an empty bowl

 yoga

you take your right knee

slowly

 new moon noting that

everything changes nothing 

in the forgetting

 then the poor parents

buying all the wrong books

from the bottom shelf

 dawn is breaking

the key swinging in the lock

sitting cat is in