She waited for the eclipse to dump him.
It felt right with her light so hidden
for so long by so changeable a man.
She slipped orbit outside Caffè Nero
on the Victoria Station concourse
after buying him a full fat mocha.
Soon the solar shadow closed over them.
Southern Rail pigeons drifted widdershins
in slow-motion as if underwater,
like the man, turning tie-less on the spot,
upper lip frothed with milk and she wondered
if she’d have loved him more with a moustache
or a dog, or a dangerous hobby.
Kissing him on the ear, she moved off
with the wave she plucked from her handbag
through the barriers to Platform 12
where down the tracks the sun spilled back
like the opening credits in a dark cinema
beyond Selhurst, Woodmansterne, Brighton
and all stations south to her sea without tides.
Awarded 1st prize at the 2105 Domineer International Literature Festival, Ireland
were a barrel
of myths rolling
down Glastonbury Tor
jangling up Fata Morgana
and Jagger. Lime leaves flickered
quick as grass snakes slipping through
the dawn Mendips where the sun yolked
the sky like a great fried breakfast. Pickled
Merlins haunted every pub, tawny pints as wise
as owls perched in their grip. Here you bundled in
munching Golden Wonders, mastering the slow tock
of darts and billiard tick, protégé of their chalk subtracted
lunchtimes until you pitched up kissing the vicar’s niece who
bewildered you with her gusseted etiquettes and the eternal
disco truths of Donna Summer, moaning through the cider in
tongues of Moroder, trapped between straw bales with martyred
arses hastening each cautious impregnation. And now you’re squeezed
between a mortgage and an overdraft as fear marches on the backs of ants
through every crack into your home. You’re ticket number 109 on banking death row yet what terrifies you is not the cliff’s edge but having nowhere left to fall.
Highly Commended in the 2015 Backroom Poets Competition
His body had become a wild garden.
With every year it brambled over
As if Age was composting itself
Into a warm and squelchy mulch
To fertilise nerve roots and stem cells.
Starting in the rich pits underarm,
A gentle heathering extended
Over his chest like a Scottish glen.
Deep within abandoned nose shafts
Ash grey striplings struggled to the light.
The sculpted ear features self-seeded
Catching sunshine like thistle down.
Eyes wintered under thorny thickets
Cautious as hedgehogs, hungry as bears.
However hard he hacked or pruned,
The boscage took umbrage round the back,
Sacrilegiously and crackreligiously.
So he turned himself over to Time
And the Diocesan Synod of Oxford.
Now heaved under the churchyard turf
Beneath rugged elms and yew-tree’s shade,
He tolls the knell of passing days
And the verger’s drowsy tinklings.
Prizewinner in the 2015 competition for the Anniversary of Thomas Gray’s Elegy in a Country Churchyard
A wedge of black hair between the blind and window,
he waits for mum to come back with the shopping bags
joining with the others in the kingdom under his bed.
He names the cats patrolling the bins after his teachers,
before they slide greased with night beyond teasing
to become a blip on his radar like a father or a bus home
or the spaceship that’s sailed out rudderless beyond Pluto,
a high tech rubbish tip loaded up with poems, speeches,
photos, binary codes and the chants of Navajo bird men
flapping about outer space as if they never left.
The full moon’s an unwashed plate and there’s an alien
in a jumpsuit and a helmet with pizza zapping the buzzer.
It’s time for their Friday treat and mum still not home.
His T-shirt says In Space No One Can Hear You Scream
but what if everything could, even your heart thumping,
even when you can’t cry because you can’t breathe?
And you know something in the doorbell’s dying again
because the delivery man is making the sound of a wasp
against a window, drifting away.
It’s time for their Friday treat and mum still not home.
Commended in the Ver Poets Competition 2015
He calls them the Low Countries
because his hope has been flattened
beyond the rind of gull-stricken dykes
where the sea back home is waiting.
Then he meets her, in front of a rope
In Room 2.8 at the Rijksmuseum
where she’s watching Rembrandt
who fixes her with a father’s eye
like they have just ended a row
and she’s been grounded with Art
for a threadless, echoing afternoon.
He asks her where to buy coffee.
Soon they find themselves enfolded
as November smoulders outside
and branches smack the shutters
to scratched Coltrane and warm gin
from cracked cups and plum cake
before night pours in around them.
Later he discovers the old man’s face,
wedged in her bathroom mirror,
on a postcard, curled with steam,
that gaze weighing up a Millennium
of terror, decoration and uniforms,
iPhones, Hiroshimas and Hello Kitty
saying “Only Gods can change.”
In his black stare, a Pole Star flares
by which her love makes navigation
and gives berth to stowaways sailing
every depth but the sea back home.
From The Chelsea Flower Show Massacre (published by Templar Poetry)
There were wasps and frosts,
a pesticidal maniac in a tractor,
spring boughs chorus-lined
in a scandal of knicker blossom,
coachloads of birds behaving
like shoppers with gold cards,
tipsy on the fizz of fat bugs,
a lost snake, a child with a book,
enough ants to build a pyramid,
a squirrel mafia in the nut racket,
the short-sighted tawny owl,
a great bumper-into-things,
as unlucky in mice as in love,
two plastic bags that got hitched
in March but divorced in storms
that flattened the orchard wall,
a syrup of sunsets and dawns.
Now here hangs the last fruit.
The stem lips my knife, the skin
quivers with the beat of the earth,
requiring precision slicing
so that we may share as friends
these difficult late quartets.
Prizewinner in the 2015 Four Counties Competition
The butterflies get in for free,
like the Queen, ex officio.
For bankers it’s a hundred quid
per slick Savile Row carapace.
Same again for their plus guests,
cocooned in crushed silk Gucci,
thrilling to every sip of Moet
and the quadrille of canapés.
We follow a late Red Admiral
through the Fiorelli trelliswork,
over the Swarovski fountain
jetting Perrier and rose petals,
to the Fragonard tribute swing
that put the W in horticulture,
styled by the crimping, pimping
manicurists of Bulgari.
Circling the Prada ha-ha,
we alight in a cash-scented glade
cooing with fresh bonuses.
Here they will raffle gilded tickets
to paradise, Wagner and the moon.
A locker room of matey autographs
will be auctioned, faked by agents
in limos speeding between deals.
And it’s all for Race Horse Rehab.
Watch the Oligarchs take the lead,
past the Hedge Fund boys by a Rolex,
snapping up Lord Coe’s lucky shorts
and a small village near Cambridge,
before the pheasant shoot with U2
goes to the Emperor of Tat,
on whose sweatshops the sun never sets.
The air, swollen with generosity
now bursts in thundering ululation.
A Saxon thane shaking with battle-axe
stumbles from the shrubbery.
“Fukka!” he snarls, like he’s lost his keys
before hacking through the buddleia
to the juice bar where gap year waiters
smoke their final cigarettes.
Shortlisted in the 2014 Live Canon International Poetry Competition