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Posts Tagged ‘Spain’

 

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Five hares on a morning field

Five ways to wake early

To glorious sunshine.

Spring’s clocks springing forward

Bringing me stumbling out early across the yard

My myopic squintings

Saluting the sun.

To be

Startled at the springing forward of the hares,

At their desperate hurtling away

And them disappearing into the back bog.

From where I was never to see them again.

Binoculars squinting serving only to point out

‘..the difference between a Hare

And a rock in a field?

If you see it move it’s a rock’.

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Oh, but how do drunk people get home?
I wonder
But…
How do drunk people get home?
My careening well…
Scars and scurf
And a long whole ago
….that pill in the morning in the clinic
that pill…
Hmm…
But how do drunk people get home?
I met the man with the box of frogs and had occasion to ask him
Feeling that the rain would stay off a while
as I sheltered under his hanging umbrella
He was too busy to answer
Much too busy,
The boxing of frogs and the herding of cats
Taking up
Way way too much of his time!
But it’d come to a pretty pass
If the only weavers of dreams left to us
Were to be the joke of the bank
(Their jokes are cruel)
And the many sellers of smoke
They there
Still there
There in the glam of the threadbare glade.

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There are deep words that sound
Sound throughout the doings of a day
Working, Running, Cooking
Hillwalking
Can cover them for a spell.
But as a bell  clanging
The tension of the sound carries.
So there are words  there
From behind trees
Around buildings
Along byways
And main  roads.
In places where people gather
And are alone
There
On waking

And at the pause before sleep
For me now the deep sound
And the words
Merge into
The sound of your name
And the answering echo

Calling in my heart’s space
Your name before me.

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You hear me

Then heed me!

And other nights of his dinner

Hitting the wall.

To be picked up and eaten with fingers

Namm namm….

 

Two brothers would be wise enough to be offside

My sister and I instead too damn like him to cower

A younger one, God love her

Never concerned him enough to talk to

Nor to pick on

Just the odd stray snarl

Of the beast caged in dark bars

Our Mum always a target

 

Try not to antagonise him as he’d maybe pick on someone else

Seeing your family suffer being much worse than

Being under the Dull Stupid Bloody lash

Of his forked tongue

 

You damn fool

We were your kin

While you were digging out

All we wanted was that you dug in

When they dug the hole for your ashes

Who of us there could pray

‘Our Father who art in heaven…..’

That first line had us all stumped

 

But I know it’s either

‘Love or destruction’

In this life we do get to struggle and to choose

 

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Bluebell frillary

Shoots of Barley on the hillcrest field

Wet dripping barbed wire

Silver slivers of cold Spring light

Through a disorder of branches

A palette  of greens

Smatterings of shade

Brown muddy boots

And from everywhere

Birdsong

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The great man enjoying a drag on his breadcrumbed fish fag!

No wonder all his faces were a bit wonky.

By The End He Was On 20 A Day

During His Fish Period

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