Summer, almost

Soft insistent rain summons smells of

tarmac and roses

dampened dust and

delphinium to the court of

shortlived Summer

uncomfortably compressed between

three cavorting cousins

hope decline and death

determined to deceive them

just once with an

intimation of eternity.

Vortex

The bird uses the great vortex of

columnar wind to find food or

venture further afield but does it feel

pleasure in the soaring

gawping void swirling with

heat and fellow travellers,

or ever want to just keep going

higher beyond the squawk of family to

discover where the wind ends and

what it doesn’t know begins?

Wild West

She made what should have been

raw, erotic, messy,

excitingly dangerous,

feel like the Wild West

on a wet night.

A Barmecide Feast

Wash thoroughly, pretend there is water;

eat your fill though there’s no food;

drink deep of the non-existent wine;

sing along to silent music;

sleep well, for the bed is empty.

Night’s Mirror

Trade Winds

Clouds

Conception

Our son was three and napping when you

jumped me in that way you once did,

all but raped me on that

Camberwell living-room floor,

my trousers round my ankles,

on my back while, skirt up, you

danced like a dervish on E,

grinding on my hardness, which seemed to

get deeper the wetter you got so that

when our son started

chirruping his waking and we

sped up so he wouldn’t find us we

both knew as I came hard within you,

kissed and shared a giggle and a

secret smile, that

new life had sprung between us.

A Mother’s Mistake?

She just wanted me to be a good man,

educated, polite, attentive,

empathetic, a gentle man to women—

perhaps to feed some need in her.

So I grew up to open doors, give up my

seat to startled women, say

sorry for her heel on my toe,

her stiletto in my heart,

smiled when I should have

snarled and vice versa because—

what my Mother couldn’t explain—

women often want gentlemen only for things

gentlemen don’t want.

Waning, Waxing