I love all kinds of poetry, but there is something special about using the classic forms, like, for example, the sonnet.

Here’s a new poem, ready for the season.

First of October, Red Moss Moor

The mist lifts slowly, its work almost done

A curtain rising on this morning still

October born, is gold and silver spun

The silence cracked by geese beyond the hill;

In lines and arrowheads they cross the blue

And drop their sagas down to us below

The sun’s white blindness cuts holes in the view

We hear them pass; we dream and watch them go

And picking up the words let fall by geese,

Our eyes drawn low again to diamond nets

The spiders’ webs will catch this autumn peace

And larder it for winter’s cold regrets

And just as shadows nurture their first frost

Our hearts store days like these; they are not lost

Knossos Feathers

A yellow feather from his head-dress falls

And gently blows away through olive dust

The prayer resounds through temples’ echo walls

Where stories hatch and science is discussed


He walks on paths laid out to catch the sky

And as his footsteps pass, the people’s hands

Rest gentle on their chests as he goes by

The Prince of Lilies smiles and understands


And now these thousand-years have washed this place

Crowds gather, tracing ghosts down broken roads

And try to catch a glimpse or find a trace

Of life’s remains, to learn to crack such codes


But I just stand in shadows chased by heat

And find a yellow feather at my feet


Ikea Car-park, Sunday

And what will come tomorrow can’t be known

No matter; still we try again to guess

The secrets of the future never shown

No bold predictions change no into yes


We fear the darkness, even when benign

We try to shake its hold with blaring light

And search the shadows, looking for a sign

A guide to lead us safely out of night


So frightened of the silence, we hoard sound

In case the thoughts within us dare to speak

We gather at these temples we have found

Where futile commerce paints a landscape bleak


But if we stop, refuse the quest to buy

Then we may see beyond us, to the sky


Waiting For The Big Bang

Nothing existed, once upon a time

Then out of this void did matter appear

And gravity spluttered a sneeze sublime

And these molecules somehow ended here

A collection of atoms, so arranged

As to wander free in this human form

And question how little from then has changed

Ever expanding in this cosmic storm

So from as little as nothing at all

Can all this bright creation be built

Then who can tell what’s huge and what so small?

And no point shedding tears for milk that’s spilt

But listen out instead for songs we sang

In quiet patience waiting for the bang


Dad At Newhaven Quayside


The boy darts in to grab the riches dropped

The herring on the quayside falling free

And in that memory, the time has stopped

The child he was, the man he’s yet to be


The years are caught in nets and brought to shore

The faces fade to ghosts and buildings fall

But something flashes silver to the floor

And echoes from that moment softly call


For there he is, and smiling lifts his eyes

As if he knows we’re watching, decades on

Then treasure to a wire he gill-bound ties

Before the voices call home and he’s gone


But precious jewels I catch in my own net

The picture of the boy I never met