Wisteria

The wisteria framed door

whence came the coffin;

a top-hatted gentleman

of undertakers, and journey

to that final place.

‘Do you want to be buried

or cremated, Dad?’

‘Surprise me,’ I said.

 

Knitting

She

sat on

top of the world,

the woman who knitted

with yarn fashioned from fleeces

of the lonely sheep which grazed there;

where the weather station stood sentinel to

the wind blowing in across the margins of the land.

In that high place, where the snows had melted, she knitted

socks.

 

This was a real encounter I had after cycling to the top of a mountain in the Picos in   northern Spain; there was an old woman knitting socks in this isolated spot, and I regret to this day that I didn't buy them from her when she tried to sell them to me.

Breakfast Buttie

Oh bloody hell

this pan is hot,

my rindless backside

fresh from the fridge

is finding it searing

to say the least;

the bubble and pop of

my frying behind might

seem tasty to you but

I find that it brings out

the oil in my skin. Oh yes,

I know what's next

with your vain attempt

to butter me up, the ketchup

gives it away you see.

Don't eat me.

 

Summer

Cool summer mountain
above the line of houses,
sheets flap in the breeze
and Mam calls . . .

Blue Trees

The blue-netted trees
were being moved; I thought
of blue-rinsed ladies
under the dryer, of Elnetted
seventies perms; the whiff
of when I passed
that woman-only place.