Taraxacologist’s Song

I've been foraging for borage,
Buttercups and a certain
Salving parsley, floral
Wreaths and silence,
Foxgloves floating in their thousands,
Beyond
My soul-tsunami.
Above love's undergrowth
Billow seeds of lion's teeth,
Also known by cankerwort,
Irish daisy,
Witches' gowan, take
Your pick dependent
On your parlance,
Slowly drifting by
Like the quietly
Glowing intentions
And desires of
Subtle snowflakes.

No greater miracle we need
Than Nature -
Germination, regeneration,
We packed away our overcoats
And umbrellas and crumbs
Of conversations to stand
With crowds in verges,
In suburban lanes where
Carnival celebrations
Passed us by, a smile,
A photograph, a wave.
For this self-renewal,
I saw that same procession
With elephants and acrobats
And other-worldly fruits,
A girl with second sight,
A vial of dust did sprout legumes,
A great-great-grandmother
From the coast who met
Her son exhumed; flags
And banners and drums;
And there, within
This entourage's
Centrifuge,
A quite magnificent
Lioness, born from leaves
Through penury,
Through belief,
Through ritual and rosaries
And into then beatitude,
Never better expressed than
In some jagged leaves
Of a weed, upon
A kerbside edge,
Recipient of our wonder,
Thereafter born anew.

The Running Dog

For all bifurcating branches
Sublime in their simplicity,
A dog has very little need

Indeed, yet with joyous barks
No less retrieves
Inherent interventions

Between what we deemed
Essential, or inbetween,
Or instead invented;

This contrast is at times
A subtle one,
Like sunlight through

Doppelganger-dappled leaves,
Ever since antiquities
In these dark-shaded parks

Of our entwining souls;
Yet if not for that twisted,
Rotten tooth of birch

In boggy undergrowth,
There would be no us,
Nor any running dog at all.

Beckoning

A deluge in May,
Kerbside surface spray,
Torrents overwhelm
Dank country lanes.

Driving in low gears,
Waterfall chicanes,
Wrong latter ways,
Reminds me of childhood

And leaping over streams
Beneath a tarn-light bay,
Beside a dead man’s seam
In long-lost dreams

And longer lesser days.
Over there, a castle, see,
Its ghosts roam free
Through basements, attics

And these oak-pannellings
Overlooking a sodden
Village green;
Stumps received,

And sandwiches filled with
Cucumber and cheese;
The church hall leak,
Well, we can fix,

While men in linen-whites
Played winning willow innings,
Then ominous rains returned,
And a beckoning for tea.

A Tuscan Sunset

Love danced
On a terrace in Tuscany,
Panacea and a panopoly,
Not of a clunky bronze
Cuirassier’s
Arrow-riddled armour
For defending hearts
Flintlock futures
Penetrated easily, no;
Etymologies discarded
And I deferred the word
To verse and cursive
Arrangements of Love,
The fruits of Spring’s
Labour cascaded
Through your arteries
As remedies for writers’
Journals, and they
Gave it a name,
Writer’s Block,
For their
Blank pages were as
Sphinx-like
And eternal as the
Unblinking eyes
Of a glaring of cats.

So I write for you,
Remembering the extent
Of the scent and the sight
Of olives, peppermint
And citrus oils,
All excited and
Heightened
The senses for
Your hair unbridled with
A Tuscan fire of oranges,
Imbued me
With new romantic
Prophesies.

Primavera skies,
A parabolic shift
Under the cupolas
And blissful
Wisteria witnessing
As we kissed.
Sunset’s backdrops recanted,
We waltzed
With perfect timing
Over the catacombs
Of what we once had,
But never could return.

Eleventh Sonnet

Love you suffused me, such measures outpoured
For my soul’s carafe of old dusty clay,
Your immortal drink surpassing Time’s cord,
I lay back and sipped from the brink of May.
Spirits inveigled, delighted we teased,
Casting adrift with a parasol shade,
Love’s wine’s inundated ewers and eased
The hollow vessel, with grapes coloured jade.
I’m intoxicated; let years slumber;
Form’s commandeered and you’ve nourished my soul,
Close all weirs from West-Wales to the Humber,
I cannot return to Lands of the Toll.
The reasons for emptiness you revealed,
Your Love, like lava, inside me is sealed.