(My first Poem: From 1968. Age 12. Not very good but included for the record.)


The Mist Shape


The early morning mist shape
glides ghost-like
across a field
silver with hoar frost.
Nothing stirs but this eerie form.
Birds are absent from their choirstalls in the hedgerow
and nature’s silence seems to mourn for their return.
There are no tombstones here
nothing for a spirit to haunt
but black bushes
in winter sleep.

The mist shape winds around a tree
its icy fingers grope among the boughs.
What is it seeking?
The branches are bare
and inhospitable.



(The next poem springs from 10th April 1973: Age 16.)


Toward the Moon










(Next Poem from 1974. Age 18.)




Weighed in smothering Night
insecurity cleaves us.
We crave for a tautness
of boundaries.

Skin lit up once more by day
a few wonder what others did in darkness.
Most people are the same again.
Some will never be the same again.





(Final selection: from 1976.)






The music
but very bright.

the road
forgets itself.

A little bandage of silence
as I step out
into the fog.

Play by ear
don’t wait
for moonlight.

In the eye
spasms of light

Rock walls
bringing her name
back to me.

coating the mouth
mute white.

Talk to me.
my mirror into pieces.



Trap-door Vortex


I want to take a holiday
into the sane world
and cold blue eyes

Off that edge of electricity
tunneling in spiral flame
which unscrews behind this mirror

My mind like a small unstoppered bottle
from the fall
of heavy boots.






Creasing a path
into the absurd
Some coat a sky with so much colour
mist is taken for a face.
Yet geometry remains
scarring its web
back along the eye
of an artist
following a picture
never quite revealed.




Dream Triad


1 Entrance


memory flashed before her.
Through the gloom
objects sank to shadow.
“I feel faint” she thought
” but I must not give way.”
Intuiting vastness
beyond her frightened face
to one side a cool draught
its source an Entrance
like a grave
steps slanting down.
What passageway was this?
Finding a Door
again she hesitated
as if vines clung to her body


2 The Click


At the sound of falling
her breath tightened.
A dim light flared
then movement overhead
coming closer
unknown shapes.

She braced herself
and heard the Click.


3 Ivy


The Door had shut.
Groping her way in darkness
one hand brushing ivy

she tore an old spiders web
feeling empty in her heart.

It seemed such a long time
since she had been kissed.




Secrets are for spies


Explore a face.
Mine reveals little:
this tired old mug
fit only
to be endured.
Though sometimes
my mouth bears fruit.
Yet secrets remain
I can’t help you with them
Secrets are for spies.



(That was the last Poem of my teens. The next page 1976-7 is the start of my twenties.)