It’s a buskers summer
I tried different valleys;
Aire, Worth, Calder. I crossed them
On buses. I took my axe
And crossed oxenhope with my dog in tow
On a little boat of a bus accross
That worn freckled moorland to a new world;
Hebden Bridge. All in all
I went from Bingley to Ripponden via Howarth, Hebden, Sowerby..
Yorkshire is dark green
Like blood rich with iron, in a season still fertile
And at times the sky is still barbecue blue.
Monthly Archives: September 2014
Keighley Funeral
The hearse waited for the taxi to reverse
as if it had all the time in the world.
Maneuvering over, the taxi, summoned to life
drove off at a deferential pace
acknowledging the gleaming regalia
in the rear view mirror;
and fellow drivers on a bigger fare,
chauffeurs, hit-men cool, somber and shiny.
Around the sanctuary of the church
a waiting flock, suited and frocked as if
waiting at a harbour for an excursion
like passengers ready to board
the silent in coming boat-
the church is a jewel, in a display cloth of grass,
a churchyard dense with monolithic heritage
while the town emerges, draws people to centres-
it’s a flaky start to the day for many
munching pastries from paper wrappers
and queues waiting with pushchairs-
people here and there, in and out
and the world on the road
being hauled past Keighley.
Rover
By day I’m a rover these days
I rove for £7.70 a day
anywhere in West Yorkshire-
A pass like a perk
As if I were a pensioner or a teenager
Withdrawn, retired
from the thought of work
busking and scratching words
between stations on laminated surfaces
defacing thoughts facing
my reflection; two is company,
3G is a crowd.
Mould Thing
For musical jelly and ice-cream
Moulds were made;
Perry Como, Barry Manilow and co..
All still there on vinyl in charity shops
Like the unwanted liquorice
At the bottom of a box of all sorts.
They sold in their time
in their millions; the reason they linger-
durability by quantity.
James Last lasting still, Nana Mouskouri
Easily digestible listening; a purée
Happily poured and preserved
In moulds and imported once into homes
While the mould breakers sold
Their dissonance in small batches
Until they broke in and broke the mould
And redefined and reshaped the mould
And some became the same mould
Thing
and a few are still sought after
Saltaire Canal Walk
A small horse had housed itself under an elder tree
A spray of berries showered it;
I looked at it as if I wanted a picture
Then down to the canal I went
And the river
Cool, still veins; runners, dog walkers in stagnant silence.
The woodland is ancient, uninterrupted, in tune
Harmonious; an ancestral home,
A court of beech and oak with depth-
Breeding, just turning; rebel princes
Bleached fringes shedding that fashion like
Jet set ladies men of the earth
Spots
I am leaking, running myself
into the ground; rainbow stains
mark parking spots
like the trail of a wounded man
limping off. Every day nudging
rain smudges the portrait again
and again; I am dissolving
before your polluted eyes
Wine Making
These trees are at fly tipping point
from open windows now heads
are pushing out, gazing at the ground
bunches driven out without rights
ready for winters boarding
I stripped the tree, ripped the fruit free
and stuffed it into a carrier bag I found
then I separated the blood droplets
from veins in the sink to make wine.
Walking the dog beneath Horse Chestnuts
babies are falling like new two pence pieces
in pods opening in gutters cluttered with leaves
at night I keep company with Moths
daddy long legs like paper like hair,
hardly there as I watch the Tilley
lamp, feel the glow of coal in the grate
watch the wine start; a bubble out
for every berry in. All the stars like seeds;
all the treasures of the dark.
Bar
the heart is dumb
pure dumb matter
surrounded by a hum
and chatter the heart
is the stadium filler
the kick the medium
the time served drum
to pound to overcome
by a fraction a bar
at a time raised
the taunted heart
will haul us raise us
Never A Now
There is never a now with us;
my heart always crawls away,
and sleeps rough.
When my heart should know
what time it is it calls and knocks
like now, I’m sharing an affinity
like a fag, something secret
dragged out and back through a hedge,
a word spoken, inhaled, heard.
Then I’m returned into a life deferred.
True Local
I could have lied
In instead I’m in
Early watching
Outsiders arrive
Like hired actors
Getting ready going
Down corridors
Like matadors
To empty stages
To lead a stampede
That’s coming
Down to water; to
Make it drink.
I play my banjo
In the staff room
Like a true local
My Deerboy 