Bollihope

Laid in the graft of fell and sky, we watch-
A sunnier interval for us.
Mottled, dappled like pearskin,
The moor’s body stretches
Its bee-tempting mauves and
Acid apple greens before us.
Above, the sky is shamed into
A dullness of watery blues,
Drab creams and slates.
A kestrel aerofoils its flight,
Steadies, truing its vision.
A faster wing snaps and
Breaks the air, splits sight and sound,
Confuses senses,
Laid in the graft of fell and sky, we watch.

A Diary

My life, is, in no particular order.
Alphabetical it’s not.
No neatly packaged A-Z,
Or season watching diary
Fed, by dull entries,
Of duller days
Devoid of any feeling,
Just weather.
My life, is, in no particular order.
Chronological it’s not.
The clock ticks clockwise,
Well it would. My head
Ticks, well it would,
Anti, clock and otherwise.
My life is in no particular order.