The monk chuckled to himself, He had walked back uphill to his cabin in search of his hat, Then, catching his reflection in the window, And seeing the hat on his head, He returned to the downward track Only to hear the wind remark: “You try to control your thoughts…

Foundations He stood up, leant against his spade, and fumbled around his Yak wool jacket for his pipe. His white beard matched the fresh puffy snow high on the mountain tops, and the empty blue sky mirrored his eyes, both in colour and in their transitory state of reflection. Not finding…

Daydreaming under a city pergola Daydreaming under a city pergola, There was a time we knew each other, When days were blissfully round And words had a clearer sound; When frost coated leaves seemed Ornate and cherished, Falling in Cavatina tones From sycamores overhead; But now, the season’s have changed And the World is less familiar, And though I resist each turn of the page, The reader no longer shares my vision

Yesterday’s prayer flags

Dads company offered him a Directors position in Portland Maine. He accepted and we moved from our Yorkshire home to Kennedy Park, East Bayside. Joey Sullivan was the first American I recall meeting. He was tall with tidy dark hair and teeth like stars. I imagine he was in movies, …

How nonchalant her steps between the open shutters and elongated shadows he carries her cello and memories of former lovers willingly, though, in the aftermath, not quite so unfalteringly. Moonlight wears dull The once lustrous stone without a sound her weight, no less to bare, groans in languid tones between the shackles and alleyways of dusk over the impromptu melody of her smile; his lust clicks to the

Until spring reveals A gem of consequence, honed From blank minded toil ©️DMM Wheelbarrow: “a frame or box for conveying a load, supported at one end by a wheel or wheels, and lifted and pushed at the other by two horizontal shafts.” Dictionary. Simple, essential. …

Saxophone tones drip down the alleyway Between this cast iron fire escape and the walls of the levee, They try to keep it quite But they fail each night, The orphans of righteousness Who proclaim their decrees Prohibition, is barred at Stanley’s Speakeasy Puddles spit back Iodine black, Whisky in the jar, Hidden behind the bar Clarinet tones make me queasy Foot-stampin’ on oak floorboards White spats and Shelby suits,

No heaven nor hell Just rain drops on the pavement And time keeping count Shoreditchpoet