Air of a Fable

Hitching south in summer,
Magic-carpeted across the Border.
A Beetle-driving bass guitarist
Scribbled an address in Putney -
A technicolor hippy flat,
Mattresses and albums.

London was almost empty,
Space for everyone.
Rumours of enlightenment -
A paperback in every pocket,
Alan Watts  and RD Laing,
Luxuriant Castaneda.
Festive work for cash in hand -
Wimbledon, the Palace lawn.

Éclairs, iced coffee, tiny cups -
And bearing down on the catering tent,
The Queen's top-hatted entourage. 
To whom does cartoon pomp appear? 
Stoned, peripheral, stuffed with cake -
Pretty much like dreaming, this 'awake'.

Earls Court

Down-at-heel adventurers
Wide-eyed in cafe windows, sip
The elevated loneliness
Designed by Sartre and Burroughs.

Only the Australians 
Will ever go home.
A snowy wind, a wintry mind
Abandoned for an altered state

Of Beat and Hippy paperbacks,
Romantic travel, Kathmandu -
But savings totted on a napkin
Still wouldn't stretch to France.

Consolidating confidence,
These early days of independence.
Another coffee guarantees

Another hour of life.


Wind-chilled on the mudflats
In a hazy winter sunrise,
The Irish -  gaunt, chain-smoking -
Tumble from the ganger's van
Piratical, dishevelled,
Still wearing suits from last night.
Do they never sleep?

Fixing steel frenetically in sparkling frost 
Till the sun grows warm enough to warm the steel - 
And soon the hangover is sweated out,
Forgotten, and they start to talk.
Scarred, rust-red hands enfold 
Sweet mugs of tea. They start to laugh.

Gleefully obstreperous
They hoist and haul bridge-bouncing cables, 
Precarious on parapets in failing light
While civil engineers like tented generals
Pace and fret in nominal command.

Never tired and never sane
They lean from the van going home
Inviting London to pub and party,
Bright lights, and Hammersmith rain.

The Spyglass

Cheered by the jungle and shipwreck
Of a one-legged Hollywood legend -
Walrus moustache, 
A well-travelled rough-tweed jacket -
The yarn of adventurers, writers, old money -
A glimpse through an archway.
What fool would ignore
The clues that lead to destiny?

A friendly blues-voiced regular was Reggie King,  
Who'd topped the bill at the Hundred Club -
He noted with approval that I,  like him,
Was fond of Guinness and chain-smoking,
Tapping,  from a soft blue pack,  Gauloises.
Maybe I could be an exploited talent too -
Or failing that,  a velvet essayist
Snoozing in a hat by humid seas.

The Seventies in Earls Court Road  -
An amiable Interzone
Where everyone is celebrating something -
Even if it's only the calming assurance
Things won't go back the way they were;
Hookahs and pastries, dealers in doorways;
The favourable ambush 
Of the sheltering pub.

April Fools

Soundtrack of the spring
Was Brand New Day -
Van Morrison caught the mood
Of light-filled convalescence -

Office Removal casuals
Driven at dawn down Regent Street
Or soaring over Westway,
Dangling, laughing, waving,
Like partisans on Liberation Day.

Driver Len 
With lurid wartime anecdotes,
McAllister, man-mountain,
Known to the police...
Andy, actor - so he tells us -
Yawning, brushing hair back 

And the bouncy Irish bluesman
Whose uncle once met Yeats -
Lounging languidly, apparently,
And wearing a cravat...

And interrupting anecdotes
The boss, ex-military, Hampstead class,
Brisk, arrogant, immaculate -
Theatrically bursting out  from camouflage
To roar at any riff-raff standing still...

Oasthouse Aromatic

Boxers, gamblers and scrap-metal moguls
Muscle in from the black-tie clan
Of Bethnal Green's lugubrious gangsters -
In-laws, outlaws, Jack 'The Hat' McVitie -
And overwhelm, back-slapping. 
September, so they're centre-stage
To tell eye-popping stories.

Scenery-chewing gypsies
Crack wood-nuts with their teeth -
Race red-hot tractors till they overturn,
Draw knives when they're demoted in the field.
Surviving children roam in expeditions
Bingeing on brambles, cornering
The occasional pheasant.

Lively-minded students charm
Avuncular farm-regulars  -
Who mock with warm guffaws
The world-improvers
In clouds of airborne powdered hops
Intoxicating summer air.

Frenzied tractors bounce and roar
Flat out.  At teabreak - sunburn, banter,
And Old Man Henley 
Stately walks his kingdom.
Air of a fable;  who'll
Bring him the golden hop-bine?

After the hops, 
We bring October apples -  
First shock of autumn cold. 
Caravans and children 
Are dragged resisting from the rainy fields.
One year to wait, in exile.


Music down a windy street -
Springtime trees and scattered petals,
Bright warm yellow door.

Sunny attic, view of clouds.
A blues fan from the Liffey delta
Introduces  Astral Weeks
By playing it through the wall.

Gina, in the room downstairs, is reading
Short Walk in the Hindu Kush
And recommending her beloved Zorba,  
Jules et Jim,  Jacques Tati's Trafic...

And Japanese Macrobiotics:
Enthusiastically pinning to my wall
The grin of Georges Ohsawa   -
You Are All Sanpaku!

Brown rice,  gomasio,  bancha tea -
The spine-rush of energy
Lifting my hair in a thistle-burst
Like mad MacDiarmid on Selected Poems.

Well clear of winter shipwreck 
Embedded in warm sand
We wake up laughing.

Happy Crew

A hapless, hilarious down-at-heel gang
Selling anything door-to-door
In Dublin and beyond.
Our yellow Fiat 127, indefatigable Biggsy,
Steam belching from his bonnet.

High-energy wit
In the runaway comedy
Of wilfully unrealistic thinkers -
Ecstatic conversation,
The sharing of random rewards.

In a hilly village, Biggsy breaks...
Black smoke from burning oil.
We peer into the mysterious engine.
Soft rain hisses on the engine block.

After the giggling rounds of drinks
I call my flat from Gogarty's Bar -
Can you come and rescue me?
I'm lost in the heart of Ireland.


Seaforths in monochrome
Vanish into sunny wars -
A variant on Walking Tours
Gone upon alone.

Bound in cheerful cloth 
I set out westward -
Bicycling The Best of Myles 

By Dante and the Lobster 
Held motionless
By the spears of the little gate.

Halfway to Paris!  I lean on the rail
Lit by the luminous wake.


Back in the pioneering days
I drifted,  star-struck,
To the isle of Joyce and Van the Man,
And fell among salesmen.

Portal to the picaresque -
Bagman for a swivelling boss
Backlit with trophies
Above a pub in smoky Dublin.

Chaotic dreamers -
Commission-only desperadoes
On the run from ordinary;
Late-night laughers
Trying to memorise a script.

Today,  my fellow-veterans
Look back from Intercon or Plaza
To pin-point glory -
The day the drill of language sprang
The cash-box of the world.

The Outstretched Hand

Many's the night I dream of sandstone -
The ManseA Chapter on Dreams -
But linksland,  mostly,  and sand,
And rain on a golf-shack roof.

Fortune,  sequestered overseas,
Or buried in the female line,
Refreshed,  may reassemble,  form
A familiar self.

But the Age of Books is over.
Will there always be exhilarating Stevenson to hand -
A panoramic dream-life
And the company of Stevensonians?