across the River Mercy
we sailed our ship of fools
all the way from Jerkinbed
to the port of Liddypool
on the foam we joked anew
and old songs sung we high
to people in the tea room
who watched the wheels go by
then fell the sun as Fairclough ran
red as shepherds pie
as we landed by the king
up on his horse so high
across a bridge and down the steps
to fountains full of air
that rhymed of evenings yet to come
when I saw her standing there
absurd
chanson naïve
Frank and Jacques sat on a wall
was it in China, or Nepal?
it matters not as in their bliss
the landscape faded to a kiss
which they would turn into a song
their lips would sing the whole day long
there were no words but ooh la las
as they made love under the stars.
Highland Games (a Mc’Memory)
In sconnie Botland once I roamed
with torpedoes on my back
and sank a little fishing boot
and a shepherd’s shearing shack
I stayed inside a rocking horse
by the name of Tingle Creek
and drank his bridle all but dry
before I’d stayed a week
I took the low road home again
as the high one was too long
and Mulling on a punctured tyre
I began this silly song.
Town Bikes
I tried to write
erotica
(of all things)
but each line
became
an obsession
with
the promiscuity
of discarded
drunken bicycles
in this old
adopted
town ‘o’ mine,
naked frames
bent outta shape
chains oiled
more often
than not
saddle’s sore
exposed
tyres bald
from hard ridden
well worn
scarlet paths
bells a ringin’
their ding a-ling-a-lings.
