Locks

where weeds hang with bliss
against a water that glistens
in slats that hold back an abyss
we lay our heads in wonder

rushes and livestock remain
to ordain over this matrimony
intercepting a burgeoning plain
they lay their heads down in wonder

pumped to a distance in vein
beneath thumping diesel spirals
that mimic unbearable pain
we yield to these heads in wonder

a feathered askance and then silence
in vibrance the bugs chant for the moon
our passing distills their cool slow-dance
they swim for the heads filled with wonder

Liquorice

Cold metal on skin;
I lean in and partake
in a shuffled, incessant dance
that soothes me.
My liquorice is a thrumming
bag of endeavour
that I share gladly.
Make me well!
Make me sweet!
Over-sugared,
a frown attests,
and I prefer the
vibrant red to the black;
these garner more frowns
and a tentative poke before I
depart.
I rummage fingers to
gather more bunches
of sweetness, for me and
all I know.
They yield mixed results.
Be sweet still, my love!
Handfuls replace handfuls
and we are on our way
as a bell chimes.

The Nostalgia Sound

The superkings
and cherry bakewells
and knitting needles
and mischievous grins
and meringue
and cats that play
and Kinder Suprises
and leafy disguises
and words that just mattered
a smile that just flattered
a favourite chair
a Coronation Street blare
a toothless grin
a card game you’d always win
a laughter that bit
a razor sharp wit

a silence that hangs
a lacking of hands
a double take that’s not you
a lot still to do