Christmas Poems

Sheep

Sheep totter, suggesting they will fall

Off the precipice and into the fire.

One ram stops them.

Shrewd, beside the gold poppy seeds.

No one moves a glassy eye.

Red Wine

Red wine, murky, muzzy-headed,

Pitch-purple-blackness.

Dive in,

Dive in,

An ocean is waiting,

A wave of tummy warming aromas

Hints of currants and oak wood sail by

As a smile forms, and storms fade,

Until a mudbank hits

And the bottle lies empty on the shore,

Its label torn, illegible.

Nothing,

But a lubber-legged, wobble-headed wine drinker

Fretting in a chair all at sea.

Cycling

Lungs breathing free,

Cycling, three hours, across the city.

No helmet, no fluorescent jacket,

A white light flicker-flushing at oncoming wheels.

Knees hurt at every revolution.

So tired that stale teenagers make me angry,

Stealing my water at the crossroads,

Laughing,

Joking that they stole fifty quid.

Not funny.

I don't have fifty quid.

That's why I'm biking all this way.

Biking in the dark without a back light.

Without a helmet, without a yellow jacket.

Lungs breathing red bus exhausts,

And late night orange London lustre.

Cycling, free, across the city.

Anitcipation

Waiting, throbbing in limbo,

No washing up done,

No daily tasks of brushing teeth,

Or taking clothes off before bed.

Perusing my unknown future,

A job, a party, a kitten.

Waiting, days spent imagining,

Horoscopes read,

I Ching consulted,

Sitting at Google considering

What destiny to type in.

An exciting future might be in store.

Can't wait to get there.