Linings

The daily rituals return
like when I took
the wooden rule

not quite up to the job

that knobbled edge to run
my fountain pen against

the overexcited Indian ink
would leave me to blot

those small stains
are inverted now
found on my sleeve

the toothpaste specks
are my page-ready mistakes
as I bend to this sink
making good this new day

to lay out
line by line
my life

Denis Potter at The Picture House -Uckfield

Here   hiding
under the cover
of lowered lighting
and a backdrop
of
acoustic guitar

with a heavy glass
of London Pride
A tongue-end taste
which takes me
back to then   1984
trying to read
Potter on Potter

But playing
other songs
from old TV shows
inside my
head   He wrote
(almost) musicals
and smoked


E210219

Verge

As if there was enough death
to recall at this time of year
there is another one to add
to the villagers’ engraved lists,

but she shall not be set to stone
in a public place, instead placed,
for now, in a far-removed room
to wait, to wake to dried tears;

she will not cry, or laugh, again,
pull faces, look for the moon,
take a selfie, be misunderstood,
she will not cry, or laugh, again.

Sky lines

Bared, here in the sky,
as if upturned, roots
inverted, then left,
a myriad of black veins,

spot-clotted by lime leaves
and the left behind roosts
of the gone summer’s birds:

Like those casts they make
of ant colonies, dead-fused,
but these reached branches
are the uttermost fingers
of the stood still giants.