it would be upbeat with trumpets
Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass
or the James Last Orchestra
who always seemed to hang around
beneath Mexican archways
looking moody and interesting
or at Beach Parties
surrounded by adoring women
more sophisticated than my mother
more like the ones my father chased
usually in his dreams

I remember 
the sound
of a dropped glass
the air stiffening
the garden’s sudden emptying
my grandfather 
running for the stairs
taking them two at a time
my father shouting
hammering on a door
bees dancing in the roses
white vapour trails
cross-hatching the sky

My mother was definitely not happy
my mother was set-faced
my mother was often laugh-less
my mother suffered from occasional
bouts of genuine merriment
my mother was a complicated person
needing to be understood
my mother told my father the truth
but only at Christmas
after several dry sherrys
once a year she told him
that he had never loved her 
never really loved her
and there was nothing 
he could ever do
to make it right again
and to stop his bloody mithering

Where the shore meets the lake
placed carefully on a low mound
as one might raise a statue to be seen
an abandoned helicopter kneels

rotors slewed
engines seized and rusted
scuffed military green and red stars 
faded to palest pink

Under Perspex 
cracked and crazed and fogged 
a hothouse of ferns
Blue dragonflies flicker in the sun

The shed 

is a fallen drunk

unable to right himself

staring at the sky

The high-seat

an old woman 

on thin legs 

caught by the sun

Birds everywhere

on their way to 

or back from

wherever it is birds go

Among the wreckage

dog violet

stitchwort

cowslip

There it was
pale shine calling
from the field ditch 
waiting to be found
And so I stooped
climbed down
through tangled hawthorn
blackberry and rose
cut arm and hand
left a little blood
pulled it free
held it in my palm
held it
and wondered
how something 
so small and fine
could hold a Fox
and all it was

Prone to excitement
and hungry for attention
chock full of hubris
a fall of some kind
is almost inevitable

On the first day 
calling down the muse
I will be struck by lightning
My lights will go out
This will be poetic justice

On the second day
crossing an empty street
I will be mown down
by a silent ice cream van
This will serve me right

On the third day 
despite being super wary 
and really careful 
I will not see the winged boy
falling from the sky

I’m thinking of
letting it grow
my lockdown hair
to see what happens
I’ll let my sideburns bush
old-farmer style
like Noddy Holder
or wilder
like Ray Dorset
the singer
from Mungo Jerry 

I’m aiming for something
unruly
artistically unkempt
mad-conductor wild 
enough 
to channel electricity
like Ginsberg in full flow
to generate some gravity
some pull 
to magnetise the muse

But that’s not how it goes

No, I will be struck
by lightning 
my burned out husk
a home for hornets
vengeful bastards
filled with hate
in league with wasps
holding a grudge
against the world
but mostly
and this is factually true
mostly
against poets

The horses on the common 
stand
backsides to the wind
for hours, half-sleeping
lost in some deep reverie
filled with memories of 
mare’s milk and sunshine
the smell of summer hay
and everything is still

until an ancient piebald flips
and then they all stampede
scattering the crows
as if they have a need 
for momentary madness
to buck and kick the dust
go wild sometimes
just enough to feel 
like real horses

New bits in the hoover
widgety gadgets
small clear plastic pentagons
the broken off bits
from lateral flow test liquid
gadgety widgets
lateral flow collateral