Health!

As the psychosomatic
Cough at my
Tabby walk
I ask myself
Who would pay
To do press-ups
In a window?

Wet

Wet

Everything’s wet
And if it ain’t just yet
Mate
Just wait
Inside outside
To
You I say
Regret
Get upset pet
Sounds of rain
You bet
Call for the
Captain ashore
Let me get set
‘Cos
Everything’s wet

Slate Scum

Slate Scum

(A true story)

There are certain snags
With crags.
A two and a half thousand foot trek
Above sea,
From Buttermere landings
To Honister Pass.

Up rainy rocky,
Past the disparately flocky,
My companion,
Not so keen on
Sheer drops,
But ploughed his
Furrow bravely,
Past desperate
Watery falls,
Without stops.

Furrowed brows allowed
In misty mountain views, as
We abused a slate mine fault
In the instructions and
Laid bare
Our misguided optimism,
For the shortness
Of this first leg.

For an inspirational leg-up,
At the top of,
We spied a slate structure
Of café proportions.
Proper.
Perfect.

But,
As we neared
It reared it’s head
Made of massive disappointment.
This nirvana, here’s
Nothing but
The mountaineers’
Club hut.
(Fuck)
We took the fresh-faced
Advice given,
By the weather-beat and driven
And hacked on,
Hacked off,
Up the slate path.

Then!
But a brace of minutes
Past that hollow house,
Upon quarried steps,
Of windy quarrels,
In a kiddies hand,
For all to see,
(For me,
It was surely done)
An inscription, clear and
Current as the falling water:

“No
Tory
Scum”

I smiled
And walked on.

Sheep

Sheep

Five days spent
Within sniffing
Or spitting
Distance of
Sheep

Never heard
One laugh
Once

I got off my train
To sit for a snifter
And a spitting
‘Weagie girl

Laughed like one
Twice

Rain Camp

Two things spring to mind
6am
Listening to the rain

#1 How long will
This supposed poet, stay in his bed
Wondering why
He hasn’t got a pen?
About and hour and a half.

#2 How long will
This supposed poem, stay in his head
Before
He can borrow a pen?
About an hour and…

Cumbrian Tanka

Sun's search-light scans

Lichen graffitis

Waterfalls shout

Flares light pine placards

Lakes keep peace

Wind has a whip-round

Nature demonstrates

Conkers haiku

Pull your strings

Scratch your conkers

Don't bark your thoughts

But pickle your best ones