Beyond the Coast

Beyond the Coast

The rock divides the water from the foam.
Watch the tides draw in,
the fall of waves begin.
Tells me world does not need me here at all.
I will find my kin
in my coat of scale and fin.
And where was I then when I was not here?
On a summer noon,
reason remains in tune.
Wonder who walked that far to erect that sign?
A lone wooden post
points beyond the coast.
To always attend to what is could cause a strain.
You know you were gone
when you are back again.
To hear what is rare is what we desire.
I know what is good,
cuckoo calls from a wood.
Slumber now and you may not see the dawn,
hear the cry of birds,
drone of a mountain temple horn.
Who can you trust when world is on the wane?
A solo saxophone
blows circles round a cone.
We’re part of the pattern we help to stitch,
but how does a newspaper horoscope
relate to a tramp who lives in a ditch?

Bolero

Bolero

Old bird cages seemed sad to my eye,
a neighbour left outside his house,
to blister in the sun,
rust in the rain,
for the rubbish van to cart away,
further down the lane,
roused dismal thoughts,
as I passed them by.
Later, on a more pleasant keel,
sat at table, to eat my meal,
turned on the radio,
to hear Bolero
by Ravel that I knew well,
created pictures
in my mind glass,
of happy people,
in jubilant mood.
They bore no banners,
carried no signs,
wore no uniforms,
walked together
in no ordered lines.
They looked ahead,
clear and serene,
knew only peace.
In good spirit,
they stepped to the tune.
The music ended,
no more Bolero.
Still on they go.

Whale

Whale

I am whale.
Scientists study my song,
how I fish for herring.
Sure as waves flow,
my language they cannot know,
they will never know me.
I am big,
need an ocean to house me.
Gulls follow my hunt for the fish shoals.
Over the hump of my head, they cry.
I will always swim these waters.
Unlike humans,
I do not know I must die.
Some humans still hunt me with the harpoon,
others make laws to preserve me.
We could never pipe the same tune.
Even with their own kind,
they are out of harmony.
I am huge,
tower in a sudden,
splash down on the surface,
plunge back to my swim path.
Sky is vast,
flight way for birds,
the winged fishers.
From the air they drop.
On the small finned darters, they feed.

From Nothing

From Nothing

Fell with my parachute,
felt empty and light,
dropped through a cloud,
vapour tingled my skin,
skimmed over a farmhouse,
avoided an oak,
landed near a cornfield,
men lowered pitchforks,
one of them spoke:
“What happened to your aeroplane?”
His question disturbed me.
It was then that I woke.
My pillow seemed friendly,
my blankets were warm,
my bed was stable.
As far as I could tell,
from nothing I fell.
Outside was no sound.
The clock had stiff hands,
could not be rewound.

Racing Cars

Racing Cars

Do all the racing cars
have a chance of winning the race
or just those driven by drivers
who have a famous face?
That is how it seems to me
when I see the same winners
on the news again,
smiling with their silver cups,
spraying themselves with champagne.
It seems that all the other racing cars
are only there for show.
I suppose only those
interested in the sport would know.
Do all those shooting stars
ever find their resting place?
How far along the track
is the human race?

Unseen water flows underground.
It can be sensed, its source found.
Mountain oak creaks in the wind.
Alert hare attends to the sound.
Away from racing cars to human absence
in the wild I am bound.

Come On, Wales

Come On, Wales

Do it for Dylan Thomas,
Gary Speed, Harry Secombe,
Richard Burton,
whoever wrote The Mabnogion,
all Welsh people here and gone,
every Gareth and Myfanwy,
come on, Wales, beat Portugal
in the semi final of Euro, 2016,
get to the final, win the cup,
hoist it high in Paris, France,
great the reward, take the chance.
May Merlyn wake the dragon,
to defend your net and roar,
to help you out play the opposing team and score.