Pieces of plane. Gnarled metal, glinting with dew,

And sunrise painting the whole scene a metallic red.

It’s spring again.

Barley Field

Barley Field

The barley field wished but swayed,

Washed by rain, dried by the sun,

And combed by the wind.

The Oak stands, centre page,

I feel her stretch as morning pushes back the sheets.

Her leaves twist in the breeze like the hands

Of Indian dancers, and the sun shoots through them,

Making shoals of golden fish swim through her shadow.

I was looking for inspiration, and there it was.

Not in the field nor the sun nor the Oak,

Barely visible NG+DA – in the trunk.

I had been here before. The memory flooded,

And there I was in that sea of barley,

Barely seeing you.

The Boxer

The Boxer

(For Phil Martin 1955–1994)

He saw riots scream and the blue sky scream

In the memory in smoke that lingered.

He saw furrowed frowns and nervous breakdowns

And outsiders who pointed their fingers.

They painted it blue and believed the news

That barks about the violence and crime.

He saw them scuttle like roaches, past him in coaches,

Their Moss Side is in their mind.

A boxer by trade and never afraid

Of the fingers that point at his home,

He built from foundations, made a soul nation,

A palace grew from the stones.

He made princes kings, lords of the ring,

Made them swing like ballerinas on glass.

He taught inner strength and discipline,

Peace and the power to last.

Governments came having heard the name

Of the man who built champions and dreams,

Who against all the odds with his will and God’s

Got to the top with the crop and the cream.

He made rights from wrong, made the weak strong,

Gave hope where it seemed there was none.

His legacy stands and lives on in this land;

The Champ, the man, has gone.

Torch

Torch

One day you may find

That all is not dictated by time;

That a river is rushing through your head,

Or a stampede of black doves from your eyes.

One day you may find that the ground

Which you once crawled on, learned to walk on, is sinking,

And the air that you drink in is hot,

And there are no cul-de-sacs, just motorways with no signs,

Horizons with no hills or trees.

One day you may find that your small world

Is no longer so small

But a space too big to take in.

Out of your mind friends say hello,

You are two minutes behind,

And by the time they think you’re a little weird, it’s too late.

The letters you receive in the post

Are from the ghost of yourself,

And you reflect on the defects and in effect

You are rejecting all that you ever were.

One day you may look in the mirror

And see into yourself.

All the tubes, holes and rushing hormones