not a whit less

not a whit less

how often
the simplest of things
the hardest to speak
simply of….

i saw a boy
shouting like the
house was on fire,
it was just
his mum had
come back home
from time far away
and at the tear
in my own eye
knew, at my
age edging towards
a pension and stylish
walking stick, that if
i saw my mum making

shelly beach

shelly beach
   to a father & yachtie

we
always walked
that last of
the way
on a path of
clay and shell
sketched along
the shoreline like
the furthest
reach of a
wave
boats on the
cradle still
as in those days
when you’d bring
me here with
you to get
something, chat
with someone about
a thorny problem
only a seasoned
yachtie might have
a skerrick of advice
upon, a piece
of paraphernalia

birdbath

birdbath

they were out
on the front lawn
the father, the daughter
and the son-in-law
the father was showing
where the birdbath
would go when
it came
explaining
considerations of
this and that
it was hot and
dry out on that
patch of lawn
and the daughter
the son-in-law were
putting in an effort
to keep up with
his talk but seemed