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The Poetry Bird

I weep of a world where the Poetry bird’s wings are clipped. The curlew waits to be grounded. As cuts to the arts, libraries, our culture are left un-shelved. The dust swept away by a government that has left our culture smashed to pieces. All dead writers are sobbing in their graves. Each poet struggling … Continue reading

When the Fisherman Fell

The phantom sea mist falls upon an unmarked grave. Where the fisherman lay, in waters deep. His boat was sunk. That’s where he sleeps. In waters fowl on days once fair, he married a woman, had many children. Even today they sing as they man their boats. Of a time when their father risked all … Continue reading

The Library Without Poetry

This is the library without poetry. A futuristic new build, like an ode to modern art, upon an esplanade, wide, still, spiralling, static. The torturous climb upon a winding staircase. Glass panelled ceiling, wood chip hidden, as if rubbed out, never before been seen. The log fire hearth has been refurbished, adroitly cut out to … Continue reading

Bromley Hills (haikus)

The quaint Bromley Hills, in winter, what a huge thrill? Houses from viewpoint.   Sitting at a slope. On a bench in old Newstead, where I used to live.   The quaint Bromley Hills, Brilliant blue skies blazing, after winter rain.   No forceful fierce wind nor pitiful pouring rain can harm those quaint hills. … Continue reading