Two Bs blessèd

Uncommon Britons sire legend and play Spirit’s forbear
Feeding fortunes afar in a tenured holding small,
Or, as strong-built wader no boat can bear,
Cresting waves to the canvassed court of an imperial heart

Noble heads both host feast and merriment
With fay-brewed draughts from a poet’s inexhaustible cauldron
For one a ship’s-depth of quenching, the other sips of hope for a homestead

One briefly dwelled a palace pledged for spoils
Crown bent to prophesy, removed, now fending feud
With Gallic gaze ‘neath invader’s walls of white

Ours, proud protector, broad shoulder-borne and poised in honour still
Hod-bearing a hearth, built strong in bonds more familial than feudal
Drawing loyalty from blood not booty
To battle likeminds instead on fields of play

Twin countrymen’s voices raised sonorous in God’s-own booming pitch
‘gainst supernatural Dwarven-echo from mountains black
Both barding coal-fletched thought and memory on Tower-dweller’s wing

They are the best of men, both Uther Ben.

A missive to missing


Dearest Pa,
for such thou are
be-framed behind
my splendid Ma

Like the garden therein
you tended – where you retire
where you retired

An impression – a fugitive form
fading in day’s light
sought in night dream
dreamed in daylight
now out of sight
but excitedly glimpsed
in bordered setting, standing
no mounted mask
but a portal to past

Loyally sought in all before
my retiring
no redundancy glazes and
you’re sincerely missed
by my father’s faithful son.

Seething Writers – 26/09/16


Turn back and regard, that which has passed.
A time when the mind could be with the future yet, indignant,
it stays reliving a life apart.

The muslin‑haze of a doubt redundant is swept aside
to draw a sight unwavered,
and the heart unfurls with the rising sun
of Great Summer past, present, and still to come.

The evening beams as a journey continues;
the blue sky’d hope a foil to the decay that is the bequest of profit.
The sight of the graves beckons hope rather than grief,
chill stones as testament to the pilgrim’s faith,
rites on a journey never‑ending.

The cleansing of rainsting, a purge to shackled remembrance,
the lacklustre postures of a character too tempered.
The chapel light, a beacon in the New Town numbness
a single‑cell legacy of a, once encompassing, certainty.



Bud, like branch
as if small, or gone far,
to what might you bloom?
A rose prim, or buxom?
A spearing new-minted finial fine
in green iron cast, your tender tendril
to wind against wind
up railing, perhaps,
or soil-grounded for brick’s brace
in your bed, instead.

Feet away

My reliable dancers
trot me from cobble to flag
nimble, now, from flinty heart
now purposeful to paved-in paths
and aside-stepping
in deferent courtesy – leave
histories’ halls behind
to melancholic ponder at seat
to crow-caw chorusing
calm, now chilled