Pinned

Her long-rooted shyness
stopped her donning angel ways
in Israel – on an Arab feast day –

but it nudged my shading
behaviour – so I took to flight
supplied by Yochai Matos –

to soar over Jaffa’s coast
and land after my exodus
from clippings in England –

ask Yochai if he offers his span
for touch-downs or for lift-offs
or just for Instagram groundings

Not stuff for my wandering mind
pinned by light and blue wings –
my weight blew away

Insurance Matters

For @Dru_Marland (Blog)


Here – almost – an immolated whale
found bare – beached and dry

She is still – no stuttering breaths
of engine or pumps – cold dead

Almost a mounted catch on display
No slightness – no sway – no slippings

by lullaby currents or crosswinds
off loosely tied mooring ropes

For once – barefooted – landlocked –
awaiting brushes and touches below

as they look for ingress and pitting
from galvanic action – They mutter

as they chalk up indicative lines
on her rubbed clean underside

You agree to fixing sacrificial anodes
Done – then you are lifted with a rush

as your craft is back to old waterways
for another thousand days of drifting

Slower

I choose a minutes slower
route within Google Maps

Such a lottery takes us longer
as we drive through mid-Sussex

Huge delays are common here –
because J.Deere tractors blast

along summer’s uncut lanes –
that narrowing of back roads –

fuming in their camouflage
of brand green and yellow –

ploughing dead straight –
making cars meet hedgerows

We hit dry spittles of sunlight
under jiggered shadows –

Here old wapple ways
are low to fields – almost-gorges

hoofed out by tramped centuries
of stick-herded stock

Where canopies intersect overhead
as prayer-grabbing fingers lock

to make summertime rooflines
under which we drive in instant night –

swooped – whilst our confines
of air-conditioning and auto-beams

make us – modern travellers – immune
to such a cool pleasure as shade

By Green Park

Day-glo tourists and hoary men –
stiff in their dour ashen suits –
not much has changed
beyond Victoria’s cast arches –

still a Queen and commoners
standoff and watch each other
from behind quick net curtains
and wrought iron barriers

as black cabs and red buses
match those travellers’ hopes
of a London of old curiosities –
with a high price tag to boot

Grenadiers play at army games
but all I see is Spike’s Neddy –
unlike Freddy – parading in heat
under a bear weight of headgear

to guard sweet sperm of kings
in their capital residencies –
where penguin-suited servants
respond to royal commands

whilst we all grovel like a Goon
under that ongoing burden
of keeping up appearances
in our less sumptuous palaces

And my return journey home
through ticket-licking turnstiles –
out beyond a thousand kisses –
is to where Sussex wears green
quite well