Gettin' good comments about these on G+

Wheelwrights.

The Smiths lowered the glowing rim,

onto the spoked wooden wheel,

and with water baptised a union:

unblessed by clergy.

Spoke-shaven spring felled ash shafts,

summer cured,

pole-balanced by saddle chains.

A blue orange Donkey Cart,

barrel raised on naked axles:

wheel bound.

Two men offer wheels to greased hubs,

pinned:

they spin true.

The cart backed into the shed,

raised shafts:

skylarking white clouds.

Donkey

Donkey shakes a lantern jaw,

avoiding the harness,

swerves, stomps, crushing my foot.

I scrunch toes back

into boot-heel: pained.

*

Harnessed, blinkered, breeched, collared:

cart saddled.

He waits impatiently.

The dawn drizzle discourages him:

work beckons.

*

Beyond the lane, bog beacons:

home-bound turf Clamps.

Farther : bog cotton sentinels,

embraced, dancing, gliding,

coupled with Dust Devils.

*

Turf, hand tossed,

creeled, imprisoned.

Full cart swaying.

Donkey head down, tired.

Teenager as well,

both content

with their bog-air appetite.

Surprising what the seaons throw up - from deep in the subconscious 1960's

South Star

The leaves are falling on Griffith Avenue

They lie there

Inches deep along the Pavement

Just crying

To be walked through.

I have no mind for shuffling in them

Any more.

Besides, I’m not even sure

If they would welcome me.

They seem to wait for you.

I watch the stars.

Finding The Plough

I trace the North Star

Then turning from it, face towards you

Even if you never see me.

Someday, I pray,

I’ll find a South Star.

And then,

I’ll never have to turn my back again

To find you.