At A Fifth Of My Present Age,
In A Forest Camp Of Rusty Tin,
We Boys Protected Our Patch
With Catapult And Arrow, Against
Our Dreaded Enemy; Those
Other Lads  From Different Woods.

Today, Sometimes, I See The Enemy,
Pushing Their Grandchildren In Parks.
I Reach For My Catapult, Pull
On The Thick Elastic Of Yesterday,
And Shout ‘Remember Me

I Remember When Eggs Took Only Three Minutes To Boil,
Then After This Time, You Had Completed Your Toil.
We Never Needed To Roast Chickens In Bright Silver Foil.
We Dug Spuds From Our Gardens, From Deep-Rich, Black Soil.

Tea Was Made In A China Pot; None Of Your Fancy Added Flavour,
Seeping Through Man-Made Perforations To Savour.
Instant Coffee And Instant That, What A Bloody Palaver
Buggering Up Our Food… Is The Wrong Behavour.

Anger Now Snapped The Pencil
As Frustration Had Tried, Yet Again, And Again.
Temptation To Abort, Any Further Thought,
Died, In The White Knuckles

Of A Stubborn Clenched Fist.
New Pencils (Only Need Sharpening)
Languished Leaden In A Computer Top, Jar.
A Razor-Like Edge, Now Strokes The Soft Wood,
And Crafts To A Needle Point.

Where Rice Grows
In Irish Sounding Fields
And American Bullets
Lie Rusted In Jungles,
I Journeyed For Knowledge,
Looking In Awe
At This Foreign Splendour;
Though
So Very Different
And Funny Strange.

My Exploration
Had Dried My Tongue.
A Small Noisy Bar
At The Bamboo Edge
Of The Heaving Town,
Drew Me In With Dreams
Of Ice The Unknown.

It Was Her Eyes I Noticed First;
That Unusual Green That Draws You In
As You Forget About
Or Don’t Worry About

Anything Else
Now Trapped, Cornered
By Her Emerald Stare
Butterflies Go To War
Dog Fighting

The Barrel That Once
Was Full To Bursting With Inspiration,
Now Rolls Empty Across
The Hard Cement
Of A Cold Cellar Floor.

That Oaken Cask,
Sticky With Has-Been Words.
The Taste Of Sweet Wine,
Vinegar Soured
On A Useless Tongue,
Lies In A Pool Of Silt;
Rotting Once Proud, Shaped Wood.

Penblwydd Hapus I Ti
Penblwydd Hapus I Ti
Penblwydd Hapus I Lynda,
Penblwydd Hapus I Ti
And In English
Happy Birthday To You
Happy Birthday To You
Happy Birthday Dear Lynda,
Happy Birthday To You.
Have The Best One Ever

I Would Think
By The Look On Her Face
We Are Approaching
The Halfway Point
Of This Long, Push-Chair-Pushing Hill.
My Young Mother, Laden
With Bags That Hang From
My Tubular Bars,
Aims Blown Kisses
To My Small Pink Face.
My Elder Sister
(By One Year) , Walks,
Clutching The Handle;
Adding Weight
To The Already
Massive Task.
At The Top, My Mother Stops
And Sucks In The Rising Fumes
Of A Now Distant City…
And It Is Here, Right Here,
I Vow To Love Her
Until Death…
And I Did!

This Day Positions Itself
On The Far Off Hills; That Cast
Their Shadows Into The Lake,
Where Near Bare Boddies
Splash Life Giving, Crystal Waters.
Summer Has Let Them Out To Play
Amid The Heat Of A Golden Ray.
Damp Towels Hang On Bushes
Like Earthbound, Coloured Clouds,
And Sandwiches Curl
In Unforgiving Sunshine Shrouds.
But Soon
The Shadows
Will Lengthen,
Tired Bathers
Will Wend Their Way
Along Forest Paths,
Where Light
Now Sits
Under A Lampshade
Of A New,
Warm-Orange Evening.