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.



Acorn drops
Join leaf loss
Oaken hosts
Sometimes teeming
To ground scatter

Lydia on leaves
On boles and
And trees
Sentry the scene
For comfy companions


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