Oh hell, my house is full of squatters !
They sprawl complacently in every room,
self-righteous residents like sitting tenants,
sure of their occupation lawfully based
on length of tenure, lack of illegality,
passive spectators of my incompetence
in letting such a dire situation happen.
They hang about in wardrobes, sit on shelves,
play hide and seek in drawers and cupboards,
slip down the sides of sofas, holes in pockets,
crawl under documents and cloak themselves in dust -
all the accumulated objects I don't use
or even know exactly that exist.

The growing season

The summer sun discards their vests
to slim their thighs and sprout their breasts.

Immature it hangs its head
disconsolate and drooping down;
in time it swells and stiffens instead
turning pale erectile brown
like something wild brought to bed.
Then the bud bursts through the sheath
revealing unexpected red
as dazzling now in garden as heath -
a scarlet poppy, petals spread.

The Wedding Reception

Guests at a wedding we joined the throng
of dancers in the village hall;
the bride and groom were rather long
in the tooth, the guests the same,
but next to her parents against the wall
there flickered a little flame.

Fanned by the breeze from the dancing feet
and fuelled by sips of sweet champagne,
as waltzing changed to a disco beat
so the flame became a fire.
She started to dance without being vain
and the temperature climbed higher.

Youth and her innocence caused a glow
to spread across that middle aged room.
Such joy as we no longer know
made her laugh and sing out loud.
We all turned to watch and even the groom
joined in the admiring crowd.

Men stood entranced but then something stirred
in every woman's breast - the fear
recalled from their own Day - and I heard
the whispering mother chide
"Now that's quite enough. Just you come back here.
How dare you dim the bride !"

New Year's Eve

One more year consigned to the past;
one less until I die;
grown from an inch to an inch and a quarter
in a world a hundred feet high.

Death Sentence

Because I'm dead I have no rights but one
yet he that murdered me lives on
and, though in prison, still enjoys so much
of what life has to offer such
as comradeship and love of family
while my folk never will see me
again. They scan a void where howls of loss
reverberate but cannot cross.
Adaptable as people are, in time
his life will mould anew, his crime
not punished by the hell of galley slaves
now Human Rights cede much he craves
like decent food, gym, music books, TV -
none of which things can comfort me.
Absent, I am forgotten, my one right
ignored while gradually his plight
gains sympathy for his release. Throughout
imprisonment he has no doubt
he will return at last. My kin and I
have no such hope. He made me die
and yet enjoys some life which is not fair.
"Forgive." they say, which means don't care.
I in eternity cannot forgive;
fairness demands he shall not live.
Because I'm dead, I have no rights but one
which is that justice must be done.

Page 3

Some feminists view it with a shudder:
"Does a bull get excited by a young cow's udder?"