C Richard Miles Poems

The poet on the 38
Has realised, much, much too late
That, in his rush to scribe and scrawl,
For him, the writing’s on the wall:
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Beams Blaze

Beams blaze, heat-hazed,
We laze thirst-crazed
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It’s all a bit of an emergency at the moment;
There’s so much, you don’t know where to start.
How can we clear all this mess up?
I know, I’ll phone 999:
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I used to watch my father in his sweet-pea bed
As, delicately, in his strong, firm hand he held
Each tender, trailing shoot and, with a shining ring
Of slender steel, he’d bind it safely to the pole.
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In solitude, surrounded in my course
By musty scents from humus–heavy floor
I tracked my way along the misty moor
Through bracken, heather, bilberry and gorse.
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My love had skin as pale as polished ivory
But, like the poachers’ dire predations on that noble tribe
That roamed untrammelled over Africa’s great length
Which stilled the trade to trickle to a needful stop,
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Christmas time was such a sin again,
Crammed with bounty to the brim again.
Chocs and goodies by the tin, again.
How will I get thin again? Begin again?
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Spilling down stark stone-stepped outcrops
Plunge unnumbered waterfalls at Cray,
Curtains of suspended raindrops
Hang like gauzy lace in silver spray.
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The kitchen needed painting; it had for many a year:
We splashed out and got a man in, not cheap but not too dear.
He splashed on some emulsion to make the walls gleam bright
As soon as he had finished, we gleaned another fright:
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As stout as Rugen’s rocky coastline stands,
Still sudden storms assail that fortress tall
And conquering kings may tumble, crash and fall
If undermining rancour stalks their lands
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