Nigh on four years have elapsed since the silence
Stole in suddenly, a January bogeyman filling his
Pockets with the smiles of a summer not to come
Again. Words may have taken their long sojourn,
Yet memories stand still on the corner, selling dreams,
Hands in pockets, whistling through the seasons
Outside the station, sipping at coffee’s bottomless froth,
Musing on the touch of benches in woodland springs,
The dance of glances on pickle sandwiches in the sun,
Caught in the cockpit of reverie’s dancing hugs
Just once more before peering, one last time, across
The platform to watch you bounce on Converse toes
Towards… A week before the fifth year inches in
To the cry of silence and while those in sensible footwear
Trudge onward through their angular muttered days,
Mine morph in vivid memory of brightest ever sound.

Shimmers of glass-light press morning against
Sleepy breasts, soft fingers of matins stretch
With her against comfort’s ruffled caresses,
As lids flicker against dawn’s gentle rising.
The day’s hardness gradually imposed, until,
Braced against the window’s intense insistence,
She’s filled with the taut insistence to rise;
Snoozes the alarm’s trilling warnings of sense,
And instead, opens her steps to the iridescence
Of languid hours to be sipped like rich syrup.
Opening the curtaining folds wide, glimpses
The day’s frantic bustling with surging relief,
As she’s inundated with flooding delight, and
Welcomes the coming of the day that’s hers.

Sparks in the night sky flew like some immense flare from a cosmic fag thrown from a speeding car window; skirting the grey Mondeo, casting quiet eyes along dawn’s straggling privet, reminding himself to forget to cut it at the weekend, but wincing at the unspoken opprobrium oozing along the road toward the filigree cotton morning. A beam of dark glinted from a window, and ghosting from around a corner slid his flight.
The first song broke his accelerator foot’s desperate desire to meet the roaring asphalt, the see-saw of his life thumping him, hump-back bridged to the floor, bottomed out, the sump of eternal futures scoring grazes deep enough for memories, but life clung on like a sticky fart.

The early April sunlight scattered dust like minute daisies on the tendril breeze, ruffling papers on the oak desk standing aloof in the centre of the room; feeling very Great Gatsby, she leant on the door jamb in unseasonally cool clothing, drifting her hair away from her forehead as she watched him scratching ideas onto sheets of foolscap. From somewhere she heard wisps of spring spiralling delicate song through the French windows. Her gaze brought a jerk of his head, and he stretched feline, arms behind his head as he smiled broadly.
His attention’s focused upon her, the play of light through the rich whisky of her hair, the casual dance of limb’s languid stride toward him.
Reaching for a bottle of Laphroaig, his hand pools cool in the warmth of her back as they weave delicate paths through the clutter of literary detritus that spills in erudite abandon across the rich carpet. Sitting on the worn history of a sofa by the breeze blown windows, they share sips of smiles as the curtains wreathe messages of spring days.
“And we could have been at work,”

The cold hard truth was in the short hair of ordinary despair. Rolling forth through hills of glistening green, the sun steamed through reluctant clouds, warming the damp grass, but time was lobbing flies at him, sticking flecks of grey insect corpses in the beard, and he drove on with the precision of a man whose life lay like sharpened pencils toward the coast. Towards life’s inevitable sandstone precipice.
Wallowing in the afternoon rain, he opened the window, longing for the old fashioned physicality of unwinding it, and looked out from the viewing point, driving shingles of rain across a sea forged hard in the prime of Swan Hunter, a lashing wind making him feel.
Standing barefoot in the rain, he stepped onto the low chains skirting the cliff, balancing like a child along a wall until with inevitability he fell in a cascade of wrenched muscles and lay in quiet desperation, giggling at the stormy clouds and their refusal to form pictures of dragons in the sky.
The madness keeps you alive; he heard the creak of a dream transaction taking place illicitly in an alleyway, felt the subterranean rustle of scurrying, and smiled. With the support of sensible stilettos or not, an army of Them wouldn’t be able to grey the world.
Days weren’t sailing by; he felt in his pocket, pulled out his pocket pebble. Squeezing it with visceral pleasure… Forth, Tyne, Dogger… slipping his damp feet onto the sodden ground, he stretched his toes into the grass, arched his back into the shards of sun. The best days are with you, they are so easy…

The gnarled shade of the oak watched glade,
Filled with the soft breeze of unchanging comfort
As ponies idly graze, foals lazing in easy slumber
And fluttering leaves heavy with feathered touches.

Skirts of decadent bracken lay in tangled folds
About the arching trees ankles, blackberries redden
As the sun flirts delicate games with coy clouds.

Laid on the rising mound of soft cropped grass,
Entwined in hands, tight as brambles, feeling
Late summer squeezing vigorous as ivy, with warm
Limbs lithe as bare birch boughs reaching skyward.

Neatly tidied blades delicately whisper of dew,
Undulations kissed by a skylark’s joy, soaring over
Filigree fresh butterfly brushes of bright blue wings;
September’s laid bare in the dappled trysting glade.

The Oak

Kissing me warmly on the velvet grass,
Troubled only by the grazing of silent ponies,
You welcome my lips to your sunny breasts,
Still slightly, sweetly, shy of the glade’s opening,
I delight in your nipple’s pert perfection.

Slow equine movement; a finches quiet rustle;
Naught else disturbs this post-noon languor
As – wriggle, slip – you belt, the button, are eased
Away with summer’s eager delving caresses.
With lingering moist kisses of slow, delectable,
Abandon, snug black cords ease away,
Breeze tickling the sparse rising hairs, in delicious
Undulating echoes of the grass we lie upon.

Trousers ankled in rich deep folds, sultry in the sun,
With snug, easy passion, you welcome me in deep,
Tight amid the slick urgency of incipient celebration,
Speaking deeply without words, we’re rich with
The urgency of a language spoken in thrusts, squeezes…

Filling you with the hot passion of wordless verse,
You hold me tight in arms that weave messages
Relished; laid in sated subsidence, your pale skin delights,
And glistening still with the richness of your love, I smile,
Take your hand to walk on under dappled beeches.

You tingle as you hear the silent buzz
Tickling the temptation of furtive glances,
Circumstance holds itself against you though,
Intrigue sitting unread in your summer pocket
Whilst your mind wanders and fingers fiddle.
A doorward glance, surreptitiously sliding
Your thoughts from pocket to desk drawer
Daydreams dangle in the heat, sultry eyes
Taking swift forays from toil to diversion.
Flicking with subtlety the revealing buttons
Your sight’s drawn down from shuffling seat
To where desire’s muted movement strokes
Enticement to your rich June cravings,
Freedom dances through your mind, whilst
Sunbeams sneak through to play wishful
Games along floral skirt warmed thighs aching
With contemplation of the drawer’s minute
Action; with peeps of yearning, interest seeps
Through parted lips as thoughts are erected,
The fluid movements in the desk’s depths
Are taken by your sparkling eyes admiring longing.
And as the image before you surges to fruition,
Your lips parted in absent minded moist reverie,
You know you’ll sit in summery solitude shortly,
Take it out once more, allowing your fingers
To dance in deep echoes of shared lustfulness.

I think I’d like to meet you at the door
Kiss you deeply before it swings to,
Feel the press of you tight against me
The brush of your clothes thin against mine
And the play of your fingers on my palm
As we curl with wine on the sofa’s depths
And perhaps your straying hands won’t
Pause this time at the brush of desire
For I’d like to reciprocate those touches
Take long moments of dancing discovery
As music whispers about our entwinings
The night musing onward as your taste’s
Revealed, and with slithering thrills we see
For the first the length of our longings
Beneath the gentle lights of evening dusk.
I think I’d like to revel in the taste of you,
Take you in hand, and I know you’ve ideas
Of paths unfamiliar to my long dreamings,
As our wine slips in sweet sips we’ll lose
Ourselves in the depths of midnight’s hugs
And as we do, smiles are our warm companion;
Yes, I think I’d like to meet you at the door.

All consumed with good sense, there’s dozens,

Hundreds – even if I regress to my inner child –

A thousandzillionmillion reasons just why not,

But whilst ifs remain ifs, they’re still vivid wishes.

And if I could, I’d be stepping out with you on

Sunny summer afternoons, with the children

Skipping and giggling as the dog skitters, slides

Through green pathways by gurgling rivers to

Sit in the heat and mull thoughts with sultry chips.

And if chance allowed I’d kiss your neck with

Nuzzles and squeeze your waist, grasp your

Swinging hand and stroll, my smile an echo of

The richness that fills me inside at your touch.

And if in moments alone we kissed, I’d melt

Into the day’s completion, my heart a mush of

Delicious sentimentality and bursting smiles.

And if you led me away, to the slow taste of you,

Inching hands over your body which excites

In all those if moments I frequent, with those

Distracting legs, the curves of breasts I imagine

And places if I had the chance to unbutton,

Would distract, delight and entrance as much as

Any slumbering diversionary dream of what if…

And if you took me in hand, spoke in worthy

Tongues I’ve not heard, I somehow feel that

My mind wouldn’t wander in absence, although

My hands would stray over undulations of skin,

And legs, and neck, and nipples, thighs and you…

And if, with the tight tang of you richly resonant,

Savoured and devoured, you welcomed me in

With open delight, wrapping me in pulling embraces,

We’d come to togetherness’ folding warmth,

Slumbering in arms after forays of exploration.

And if I could I’d take you in mornings of waking

Wishes, turning from pathways to secluded nooks,

With straying hands beneath willows and beeches,

Frolic with the temptation of you undressing,

Before with sated sparkles we whisper cream teas…

And if I could look into your eyes, touch thighs,

Share amazing tales of pasts, chances and futures,

Roll in dreams with you, sipping a glass of red,

Feel the brush of your squeezing tantalising hands

Kisses straying with the tender urgency of thoughts;

Then, as in silently yearning dreams, I’ll gush torrents

Of delight that chance helped us come together.

And if over moors and streams, by Broads, canals

Pastures, coastal paths and river cafés we wandered,

The wonder would be the chance to live these ifs,

For even as they’ll remain just ifs, every single

Moment with you is another amazing warming glint,

And if I could, I’d reach out to you with those smiles.

Sentimental

Don’t get sentimental she advised,
But he spoke softly to the emotional
Void, conveying his truths obliquely;
In life’s accommodating compromise,
He’d stiffened lips in an English way,
Turned with stoicism to face reality
Hold the emotional loneliness inside
Ruffle its ears and keep it asleep by his
Itching feet. In the gaps though, and
Amongst the sharpened porcupine spines
Of berberis conversation in the dark,
When arms do their lying after lights,
And lips repeat words without meaning,
Yes, in all those weathered erosion times,
Then truths resonated with the sentiment
Of anguish, of a million fireflies dulled.
In such dark, the glitter of friendship shone
With the alacrity of idealism unbound;
The smiles of love unfettered frolicked
And I will be sentimental he thought.

Anticipation

In the dining room doorway we stand,
Your back pressed against me firmly
As my arms wrap themselves softly
Around you, kissing your open neck,
Accepting proffered lips with delight;
I’m tempted to allow hands to stray,
Over breasts, denim, between thighs,
But I stay my desire for you, pressing
Kisses against your delicious skin instead
As you press hard against me, smiling
At the feel of undisguised attraction.
And your hand wanders beneath the
Looseness of my shirt, taking strolling
Fingertips over my skin, suggesting
You’ll take that little beltway path,
But with a kiss and a giggle you turn
Smiling from caresses to leave richness
Of anticipation to seep through hours.