Whilst waiting for the last train I discovered graffiti Written in crude French Les funérailles de mes rêves humides It made me cry Which surprised me As I do not often cry

I buried the last of my wet dreams today It was a sombre occasion As I had expected it would be There were no mourners Just a few careless seagulls Hunting for food

During my time in Paris I rented whores by the hour My hire was not to fuck them I just wanted them to listen To the poetry of my wretched pen

Om the cover of my paperback book One can find the silhouettes Of various creatures They are very angry Fading within the red rawness Of an exhausted sun

This family house was built in 1897 In a colonial style in spacious grounds The 1930 owner added a small crystal lake Because of the local light which fascinated him He then added the much loved Tuesday Room Where he composed most of his wonderful music The mood pieces used in so many of his […]

The Aston RosesWeep in memory Of our family farm Which was once aliveBut now no longer breathes

Sharp Suits Smart Ties Polyester Dresses Brightly Coloured Painted Ladies High Heels On Linoleum Floors Cigarettes After Sex So Many Cigarettes Formica Tables Much Damaged In Neon Caves

October Month in decay Heavy and damp Summer memories Fast fading November Stormy winds Inhibit colour Short grey days Brittle January Frozen wastes Little has survived Icy winds punish Hope Martin Mill 1939

March Rural awakening Fish in streams Infant creatures A softness returns May Milk towards trains Breathing fields Horses grazing Green into Blue July Nothing moves in the heat Meadows scorch Rivers reduce Everything sleeps Martin Mill 1939

A tradesman Was beating His horse