Ken's Poetry

Getting The Dts Again

Tyre black ravens coil and curve
round pseudo crumbling-castle walls,
stone orbits round square empty eyes
stare precariously over the glimmering bay
where hunchback heronsa glower and preen,
and somewhere a rippling curlew cry
echoes over the trickling double-day tide
dropping down swerves and curves
to the glistening distant sea.

The field is silent where the donkey brayed
and the tumbledown hippy house
is even more tumbled down,
the cliff top graveyard topples and clings.
Beside the abandoned bus garage doors
the rusted bones of the petrol pump;
the crumbling façade of the bookshop
hides tiers of bursting shelves
falling down stone rooms of time
into a world of words and rhyme.

Poetry bubbles from river and sea,
out of the semi-submersible grass;
cliffs red painted by times slow shift
open their throats to a poet’s kiss
with songs of my youth, and songs of his prime
over shimmering sands from Laugharne to Pendine,
knowing the gulls on the crystal circle of sky
have all the discarded words in their beaks
to drop on the passers-by.