Where do they go to?
Those endless rows
Who once sat, bless,
Pleased as punch
And bright as a bunch
Of tulips essential
To our well-dressed
Red-shoed universe.
They sang a hymn,
They learned a word,
Only ten or twenty years
Ahead to be interred
In brambles and roses
For the wrongs
Of a man, or men,
Or whoever we failed
In our future roles
To only once deter.


Tarmacadam cracks
Observed from above,
Parallel lines
And tattooed loves.

Even amateurs might spot
The starless ones
Down a garden path,
For they do not yawn

When others yawn,
They do not laugh
When others laugh
And empty all the aquaducts.

These then, their heels,
Photograph albums,
Lever arch and plastic meals,
Dog collar minus a dog,

Throat had somehow
Caught a frog,
Newspaper memories
Join the dots.

After All

Under margrave groves
Of peach blossom trees
There flows the falls
Of a winding creek,

Their blossoms’ aromas
Are mild and are meek,
But those torrents below
Are baleful and bleak.

My iris-blown beard
Diurnal and straw,
But under my chin
Eternal tears pool.

Snowfall cloaking
After all,
But when the snow melts
(If not long before),

Those bodies revealed,
Their mortal hands hold
The one different future,
Distant and cold.