Lost Footfalls of the Proletariat

Café high ,

Below,

The forming of sestinas,

Rhyming collisions on Northumberland Street.

Slip-shod, wearing well, mingle,

Be-reived, meandering shadows,

Brindled cheeks of north-westerly hunch and stoop,

Ghosts of tomorrow,

Letting go the footfalls of the proletariat

Wear testosterone, and woodbine

As counterweight.

Silver, rain, once Two Ball high,

Big Lamp tall

I am Lonnens low and amen corner

Morden madrigal,

Song of slowworm.

I am Lonnens low on amen corner.

An intuitive pull,

Vallum course, westward, track,

North of Keelman’s…

All you posturing princes

Bow to Pike and

Curled lip of fell brother

Quiff of glacial rock and roll-back

Hold that stare and take me empathic.

Do your hips shake? Tremor me?

Squat skies imprint silver on black

Over singing tree, dance, shadows,

Patternate, delineate, plume light on

Sheltered dock, harbour, hope

Bleats and gripes within.

Skip, byre, tip of toe skims rush

Of foam tipped babble, we dabble

In and out of innuendo

Muse on the dialect of birdsong.

Fawning puppets to ringtone melody?

Or masters of mimicry for self amusement?

Fortune offers them nought but a song

Or the tune of lamb through rustling gorse,

Now and then, cow bell ring, gate creak and slap,

A recollection of hammer on last,

Head missing leather...

Not fingers, fizzing,

Resonate in palms and tips,

Skimming the cold tap,

Foaming at the mouth,

The rescue of fizzy pop.

You are balm on prickled rush of life

You are prickle and bramble,

Softened by surroundings,

Trees are meaning and meaning is manna,

You are water and sky, cloud and mountain.

I am Lonnens low

And Strawberry How.

It is bluebell sweet, this aged terrain,

Make magnets of my bones,

Glue my soles and

Tether the wild horses within my

Shambled body.

I am Lonnens low,

Strawberry How…