The Jogger

Steady breathing.
In.
Out.

An asthmatic wheeze.
Out.
In.

Unexpected gradient.
Power.
Burn.

Rehydration.
Stitch.
Walk.

Change of surface.
Bounce.
Resume.

Determined final extra push.
Warm.
Down.

Endorphins.
Addictive.
High.

Sense of accomplishment.
Tomorrow.
Again.

My empty hands, empty arms

Where is my boy? Where can he be?
As I sit writing poetry
and watching fathers drinking tea
with families for company,
I close my eyes but only see
the emptiness upon my knee
where my beautiful boy should be.

Where is my girl? How does she do?
I fear the things I wish I knew
about the faultless way she grew,
resigned to post a thought or two
in verses impromptu:
an imaginary rendezvous,
not the endlessness of every queue.

Where is my continuity?
Where is the strength to continue?

To fall asleep and rise aware

In this time
In this space
In this calm
And restful place

To breathe in deep
And taste fresh air
To fall asleep
And rise aware

Here and now
No more, no less
The why and how
Of mindfulness

In my head
All is clear
The way ahead
No stress, no fear

In this peace
In my zone
To feel release
To be alone

To breathe in deep
And taste fresh air
To fall asleep
And rise aware

Norsemen

Over the fen
The Norsemen are coming
The fire-bringers torching
Mud hamlets scorching
The Norsemen are coming
Over the fen.

Under the moon
The silver meres shimmer
Feet crash like thunder
Clattering plunder.
Screaming, rampaging,
like death waves raging,
The silver meres shimmer
Under the moon.

Over the fen
The Norsemen are coming.
Masters of fright
Marauding at night.
The Norsemen are coming
Over the fen.

The Coming of the Spring

From the comfort of a warm conservatory,
The garden still looks wintry cold beneath the metallic sky.
Blades of yellow-tipped grass
Shiver in the unrelenting breeze,
Fragile threads of honeysuckle tap heads upon a wall of stone,
Dew drips from exposed rose thorn.

Last year’s mighty buddleia is naked save for random frills of freshness,
Revealing rough-barked ankles and the green-damp fence.
The twisted hazel cowers
Beneath leylandii towers.
Warm red against green, a single camellia bloom draws the focus.
Spears of daffodil and crocus
Tear through softened earth in the shadow of a willow.
Robins feast on a hebe pillow.

Silver smoke drifts from next-door’s crackling fire,
The son-et-lumière
Of breakthrough sun and birdsong choir.

The Fool

April 1.

He thinks it's fun
to fill the shower with balloons.
Clever boy.

I spot the hidden camera.
Busted!

Afterwards, I wonder if I should have played along with the gag anyway.

Nah. Probably best not.
My butt needn't be the latest viral sensation.