Flower bud

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Flower Bud

as a button
latent opulence
and dormant splendour
a whisper
of warmth
an explosion
of colour
a celebration
of life


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Does nature
or nurture
compel my
young Lurcher
to search
fellow creature?

The Learner

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The Learner

Go for it, you wimp.
But mum, it's so high!
Don't be a wuss.
I'm touching the sky!
There is nothing to fear.
Mum, that's absurd.
Just do it, please.
Am I really a bird?
We all have to learn.
I don't like this ledge.
Oh, for goodness sake, son
-just jump off and fledge.

A view

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A view

Sea-sculpted cliffs
and wind-worn trees,
sun-blessed hollows,
a whispering breeze.

Butter-fat cows,
corpulent sheep,
balancing birds
snatching quick sleep

on taut phone lines
humming their tune
to the amorous face
of a twilight moon,

as the night draws in
and the earth exhales
on a handsome view
in the Yorkshire Dales.

The Prize Bull

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The Prize Bull

of selective breeding,
the size of a steam train,
a head
of bear-like proportions,
your testicles,
a pair of monster cabbages
in a grocer’s bag,
almost two thousand kilos
of prime beefsteak,
an awesome specimen
of animal beauty,
at its proudest,
and yet,
your behaviour
in china shops
is completely

The cycle

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The cycle

A cathedral of colour,
palette of yellow,
brown, golden, red,
mellifluous, mellow.
Impatiently shaking
her clothes from their frame,
keen to renew,
recommence, start again.

As each chirpy season
accedes to a fresh,
she herself swells,
yet fades with each breath.
In a blink, it's the bole
must make way for another,
sedately decay,
giving back to earth mother.


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I bud,
and leaf.

Then would
I curl
and leave.

Natural healing

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Natural healing

Gaudily-coloured, thoughtless litter,
a twisted, traffic-soiled tree.
The neglected house
with it's burglar-challenging boarding.
A slovenly parade
of prematurely closed shops.
The pushchaired child
in a tissue thin frock
and summer wellingtons,
at a passing hearse,
its occupants
a study in collective grief.

a Blackbird,
dark as jet,
with a beak
the colour of school custard,
hops down
onto a knuckled branch,
opens his throat
and sings
the first few notes
of his honeysuckle song,
lifting my soul
and I know I will make it
through another day.

The cuckoo

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A cuckoo's a lazy old soul,
never bothers with building at all,
turfs eggs from their nest, dirty rotter,
a delinquent, and troublesome squatter.

Spends her whole life on free benefits,
expects others to raise, feed her kids.
This mother may sing a sweet song
but something, somewhere has gone wrong.

A question of size

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A question of size

To my surprise,
a seed is the size,
to hold a tree.
Well, goodness me!
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