There are three of us here together

myself, the window, and the garden  

as if one, a looking moment.

And the same light falling on each

though differently through tall

and skeletal trees.

The garden readies itself for the Spring surge;

a bird-shaped smudge on the glass – blackbird

or hawk? prey or predator –

throws the hue of old hydrangeas through

the whole spectrum, as that old owl

Newton had named it.  

I am blinded equally by colour

and clear air under a strengthening sun.

They confuse and exhilarate

with their profusion; their commentary

adding textures that contextualise

everything, everyone.

On the first day it rained.
How can you get anything done –
rain is the leveller, disturbing boundaries,
mixing sky and earth
into one element, mud.

And on the second day again;
listlessly the ripening thoughts spoiled,
the cold damp languor stealing-in
with its night of cloud.

And on the third again the same.
This must have been when they made
the Northern Quarter:
to be always waiting
and never to be called.

Another three days of this,
helpless behind steamed windows, mind
in stupor, body in torment; body in stupor,
mind in torment –

I walked out then,
without a coat, and Can you
still doubt me? I called.
Didn’t wait for a reply.

Underfoot, the peat sprang back

leaving watery footsteps

behind – there were no greens

or browns, only earth-colours

and moss-colours and a sense

of refuge from the inky pools beyond —

the kelpie-lairs and deeper fathoms

where dwell the ones who never made

the crossing. Ahead,

it shone as if lit by fool’s fire, white

with the coolness of old death,

hollow eyes long vacant, but staring,

knowing now the perils

of the mire. Horns,

regal and incredulous

in passive defeat, hung

with fronds of lichen

in gaudy decoration, the bog

speaking in warning,

in reclamation.

Meringue Pupa, Vandalised Bomb, Eleventh Hour Udder:

he went by many names

but today

Moomintroll is shrink-wrapped in the gammon carousel

at Waitrose,

his fat in circles round him like a hoopla peg,

rumour, though, suggests dementia

after ten years as a full-time semen donor,

his sex identical to windscreen wipers

though renegade and twice as squeaky.

Whatever,

Death the Chiropractor culled

his valley calcium

manipulated his cranial sac

and turned his plush into a single-seater.

Cut grass holds a faint petrol scent; meadows mown.

A thin white plastic stick with petal-edged cup emerges in a cut and tumbled wave; becomes a rose woven into the surface: an ornate brooch upon the lapel of a green woollen jacket.  

Dried golden-brown by the sun, and removed forcibly from its host: a shattered limb, fissured; paper peeled away: revelations from its past.  

Splayed hands, jagged fingers that lift, curl in the breeze, stroking bodily warmth.

Underneath, a vast green-yellow stubble appears, and just-visible roots.

Rapid warm blades pierced this rich earth, disturbed its surface noise, all un-knitted, it will soon be knitted back again.

Soft fuzzed bands of red and black are broken: an intimation of evening thunderstorm, a parting cloud.   

Legs grasp at nothingness, remember portals, stems, petals, light and shade. Two perfect eclipses reflect a sweet working life fulfilled.

She took her camera into school to photograph jellyfish.

‘If they hang too long’ she said ‘they sag.’

So, no pulsating locomotion there then, no drifting along

on ocean currents, this bloom of jellyfish droop from wire

in papier maché clusters, tentacles trail in paper fronds,

awaiting the currents of Powerpoint to animate them.

It winked sporadically, of course, I knew it was winking at me.

I filled my house with twinkling plastic, a remedial action, a riposte

to the rain-sodden weeks and the sight of dim figures, faces

like waning moons in dark interiors, sheltering, wringing hands

in pulled-down sleeves. I spied those orange wheels in indigo pools,

the fat blue snout, with yellow helicopter blades and wings, among

the sodden stalls and covered chattels. Then, with a burst of nursery songs,

the blades whirled and that red neon bedazzled. I knew it was winking,

waiting for me. I bought it, bought all the potential winking lights,

filled my house, filled my life with one heck of a wink.

One time she just watches,

another time she whisper-strokes his scared-crow shoulder,

slides fingers under the lapel, lifts the grimy cloth,

fixes his rheumy-red eyes, you wear too many clothes,

the sun is fierce old Daniel. The habitué shifts wearily.

With a hint of a skewed smile he shuffles on until he disappears,

becoming again the essence of the hedgerow, the verge, the hill.

Apfelstrudel

Timeworn café in Berlin,

the parents of apfelstrudel.

Warm Christmastide notes of cinnamon, linger

and anticipation of plunging a fork

into crackling pastry,

splitting flaked almonds

revealing glistening gold

and the scent of late autumn.

Hedgerowild

Haws, hips and sloes

on heath and hillside.

Wine dark jewels

and crimson rosehips.

Dusty sloes pepper canal paths.

Bright orange berries hang on Rowan’s arm.

Magical woodland.

Heathland.

Berryland.

Wise Elderberries know their fate.

We celebrate

with hedgerow liqueur,

majestic jam

and jelly.

Yet,

behind a garland of green

a cluster of shiny blackberry eyes

blink.

Whisk in Love

Take one large life

and fill with four essential ingredients;

Love,

Food,

Shelter,

Education.

Firstly, heat oven to Gas Mark 88.

Use the Shelter as a base.

Sieve two grams of Education into the Life,

and cream, together, with the Shelter,

slowly,

over several decades.

Add Food, sparingly.

You don’t want the mixture to ooze over the top of the tin.

Food, which obviously depends on your climate,

MUST be locally sourced,

otherwise, the recipe won’t work.

Whisk in 7,867 grams of Love.

Make sure you get air into it,

and that it blends with the other ingredients.

This is crucial.

All ingredients are equally important.

(However, some think otherwise….)

Shake the mixture a few times on the table

to encourage any

large lumps of negativity

to come to the surface,

then immediately crush with your fingertips.

When mixture is complete

pour into a lined 5 foot human shaped tin

and bake for eighty years.

Test with a skewer to see if it’s cooked.

If it shouts in pain

it’s done.

Let it cool and decorate however the hell you want.

Go wild!

Serve warm with a coulis of Happy Sauce.

Chefantics

I am a starched white culinary creator

And I’m flipping crêpes….

Crêpes…

Suzette?

Savoury or sweet?

We always taste them.

A chef’s treat.

Crêpes.

Destined to delight

the most discerning customer,

who is always right.

Right?

But I’m not only a crêpe chef.

Wrist on overdrive

whisks up a frenzy

to perfect dill sauce

before the flaked fish fillet

grows cold.

Finish with a fence of jerseys,

doll’s house trees

and fresh parsley.

I pretend I am a giant chef

making raisin rain,

dropping dried grapes into a soft, talcumed nest.

A powdered cloud.

Wobbly saffron vitellus

congregate

on sweet golden sand.

Sheen of dayglo marg

dazzles.

Fingernails imprison cake mix.

Itchy nose remains unattended.

Magic mixture

glooped into clasped tin.

You’ll never be the same again.

It awaits

Aga transformation.

A cakeification.

Here comes

six separate orders for

the dreaded full English.

Ten different items on one plate.

Don’t overcook the eggs!

Must preserve yolk

for essential soldier dippage.

Breakfast at the Waldorf.

Egg’s Benedict.

Stock broker’s hangover cure…

Chef’s in a daze

making hookers of hollandaise.

The devil sauce de curdle

responsible

for waste,

if you’re in haste.

It’s all about the timing

A bit like rhyming!

Service over.

Pint of fizz

on breezy balcony.

Breathe…..

Bliss….

Starched whites now creased greys

splashed

with food paint.

Beetroot bled into crusted batter.

Fingerprints of cocoa.

Pips of tomato.

Hass avocado.

Ripe morello.

Remnant apron of art.

Chefs?

We’re flipping crêpes!

Comfort Food

So, let me hug you

with arms of freshly baked baguette.

Let me refresh you

with breaths of cool vinaigrette.

Let me seduce you

with eyes of tempting chocolate cake.

So, let me drench you

with tears of strawberry milkshake.

Food is my Biggest Sin

Food is my biggest sin.
Whenever we fight, food always wins.
Food is a big part of life.
You don’t eat when you’re a girlfriend, but eat loads as a wife!
Then as you grow, you become a mum,
and you realise you have quite a mum tum.
From munching on kids’ leftover food,
and finishing chocolate when in the mood!
Cheese and crackers, leftover cream cakes,
the delicious coffee cake your Mum in law makes!
Trifle from your Mum, pie from your Dad,
to leave this food would be quite mad.
But the weight comes on as years go by,
and you start to wonder why!
So you go back and try to lose weight,
with what Slimming World and Weight Watchers make.
But you can’t beat your Mum’s Sunday roast!
Washed down with a drink from the dinner time toast!
Talking of toast, are you marmalade or jam?
Or do you have toasties with cheese and ham?
Yum Yorkshire puddings that make Toad in the Hole.
The quickest way to reach my soul!
I feel quite hungry talking about food.
The fight continues, but I always lose!


Cakes

Cakes, cream cakes, chocolate cake, lemon drizzle cake.
Any of these, my day will make!
Nice and soft, moist to the taste,
and it all comes from making a paste!
I wish I had the talent to bake.
I can’t even do the ready to bake make!
I am partial to a Manchester or strawberry tart!
Cakes are definitely the way to my heart!
Just wish that cakes would help you lose weight,
instead of making your clothes sizes more great!
As you can see I like my cakes.
One day I’ll invent a cake to make you lose weight!

Ice Cream

Snugburys is a local ice cream shop,
with so many flavours, it will make your eyes pop!
Caramel, toffee, honeycomb and mint,
are just a few to start a print!
Vanilla, chocolate, raspberry ripple too,
so many to choose from, what to do!!
Rum and raisin, orange and passion fruit.
These flavours never follow suit!
I feel I’ve died and gone to heaven,
especially when you try the meringue lemon!
Clotted cream, pistachio and Oreo cookie,
or even try the White Mountain, if you feel lucky!
So many flavours, I just can’t choose,
but whichever you pick, you just can’t lose.
Deliciousness itself doesn’t come close.
All these flavours just melt in your mouth!

Biscuits!

Cookies, bourbons and custard creams
No matter what biscuit, I’m living the dream!
Crispy pink wafers, a nice hobnob,
dunked in coffee, or tea, it does the job!
Yes, I’m a dunker, whether it’s coffee or tea,
Just dunk it once, it’s enough for me!
Chocolate chip, ginger nut, malted milk,
smooth as silk!
Put it all in so I can only mumble.
That’s the way the cookie crumbles!

Sweet Shop

I love looking through old school sweets!
Whenever I see them, I know I’m in for a treat!
Bonbons, Sherbet Lemons and Sherbet Trips!
Licking the sweet goodness off my lips!
Sugar coated jellies making lips tingle,
Getting a great selection when ready to mingle!
Black Jacks, Fruit Salad, Drumsticks and Whams!
Soft juicy sweets filled with fruity jams!
Melody Pops, Irn Bru chews,
Love Hearts and Swizzle Sticks, sweets of pink and blue!
A kid in a sweet shop what shall we do!!

Bloom Café

Have a seat at Café Bloom,
in a relaxed atmosphere and cosy room!
Whether you drink coffee or tea,
come and have a drink with me!
Peppermint, earl grey, latte or mocha,
for drinks galore you can’t get hotter!
A bite to eat, a slice of cake,
a coke, some juice, or a nice milkshake!
Come drink with us – take a break!

Café de Paris

Come to Café de Paris
Qui mon qui!!
For a quiet drink, be it latte or tea!
Hot chocolate, snacks, cakes galore,
After one visit, you’ll just want more!

Café de Paris.
Paris holds the key to your heart.
Romance and drinks together, as one part!
Aroma of tea, coffee, croissants, freshly baked!
Come join us in the Paris of Nantwich, we want you to partake!