The Coffee Shop

We meet, now and then
At a table that waits
For our familiar awkward dance

You never wear lipstick
I don’t wear polished shoes
No-one watches us sit

Our words elegantly entwine
Thoughts and cadence in time
We rarely smile

Upon leaving we barely touch
A kiss too much, just an arm
Lightly grazed, enough

I Like Watching Paint Dry

Just stillness in a wet veneer, staring back
Daring you to look away, as if to say
Move on, there is nothing happening here

A pungent aroma which snaps at your lungs
Goading you to draw another breath
Not turn downwind

Smooth immaculate sparkling gloss
Undulled by years of light,
Taunting – “touch me”

It feigns stillness, whilst each moment
Transforming itself before your eyes
Whilst cool air sucks helpless moisture dry

And as paint quietly, suddenly solidifies
Its passage unremarked and unnoticed
What else might we see-if we were to look?

Bad Form

It is said that lim’ricks with anapaest
Are never regarded as second best
But if amphibrachic
Will cause metrical panic
As those who are reading this will attest

Say Cheese

Your habits were curdling,
Your faults were draining
But as our bodies pressed,
Who would have guessed
We would ripen with age?

You became smoother
Almost buttery to the touch,
Something to savour
You developed a more
Rounded mellow flavour

Leaving me no longer Blue,
And you made the grade.

Step by Step

Walk with me, match my stride
That unknowingly we may keep pace
Marching silently side by side
Let no dissonance break the sound
Of our purposeful feet
As they meet the ground

Let our gaze fall upon the same sights
In the undulating distance
Be drawn to the languid menace of circling kites
As we exhale in perfect time
Air snatched by a capricious breeze
Whispering together in sonorous rhyme

Tie your bootlaces tight and neat
So your heels scream a little in protest
To our synchronised beat
Tuck them in lest they should fray
Leave the minimum exposed
Walking on our way

May the fragile imprint of our soles
Linger longer than a moment
Amidst verdant watching knolls
Signature trace of man- made tread
Left teetering in defiance
Of squalls that lie ahead

At the Charles Cotton Hotel

Maybe he sat here in his impecunious years,
Casting his mind back,
Nursing a stout, whilst dreaming of trout
Glimpsed in the clear waters of Hulme End Bridge,
His dubbing bag unclasped,
The black hog hair of a dry fly
Just visible.

Or perhaps he recalls descending the Manifold’s steep banks
Reached by mice tight bridges,
Fast water snatching at straining thighs
Stalking nimble prey,
And the sweet aroma of beer boiled fish

When you pass, “Sirrah” he might say,
Asking you to stay,
To tell of fish that got away,
Or for a hand of cards to play.

And as twilight falls from peak to dale,
Bright embers illuminate the tellers tale,
In wistful fond remembrance he may doze,
To a crackling beat,
Nodding off, his day compleat.

Upon the Occasion of the Accession to the Throne of Edward V11 (Fit for a King)

The Hartington Water Pump

A King’s coronation is a wondrous thing
Celebrated by plumed pageant and grand flotilla
Cannon may salute and flags may fly
Lavish banquets enjoyed by all.
Civic buildings and statues may rise
Bearing His Majesty’s name in engraving and plaque
Heads of State visit, the Empire pledges allegiance,
From Calcutta to Canada , from Lahore to Singapore.

But in Hartington such grandeur goes down with a bump,
So they commemorated the event with a water pump.