GRAVES

Graves for mariners,
leaning towards the sea,
a lot lop-sided
as if seasick

Gravely now,
we went towards the graves,
the sea churning,
then marinating green

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On a white horse
she came riding
and the stirrups jangled
like percussion
into Peter's life

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BY THE LONG CANAL

By the long canal,
the larch leaves were turning yellow.
The look of them seemed
to melt into canal.

A long line of trees was on the left,
and if you followed them,
you would reach eternity,
or so it seemed.

Anyhow, I enjoyed myself;
had a picnic by the larches;
saw the birds,
and identified a few.

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"Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams", wrote W. B. Yeats.  My poem makes use of the last four words.

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ONE SMALL POEM

Beryl had a little bag...
It was white and full of
precious dreams
to make you think and think

The opening was small -
enough to let one small poem out a day

Closing it was done with
silky ribbon.
It was white and long and as lovely
as the dreams

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An iron cat,

stiff with wondering

down the dusty road

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           Her love knowledge missing,

    no better than if she were in a nunnery,

 with only Devotions to slow-speed the day.

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JOY JARS

Joy jars in a council flat
with not much money
No joy in that...
Joy jars in care in the community

Joy jars in difficult lives
with no prospect of upward promotion.
Annoying little word
teasing by its unlikely presence often

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