Ian Keenan

I don't dislike them,
The tombstones round
The church,
Of Woolscombe, and Tebbit,
...

Asked to talk of you
I find little to say.
Not that you are perfect,
Grumbling as you do
...

Winter turns leaves swish
Like corn flakes kicked around,
Frosted paths moistened by the snow.
Straight stark trees,
...

The bell breaks sleep;
Her body stirs
To send away goodnight,
And breaks my day.
...

In this month of flighty
Fluttering swallows above
Houses,
Of lugubrious jets
...

KFC was tempting,
but my gallbladder complained
so I settled for Garfunkle’s
and an omelette.
...

You, who have seen the
White and redness
Of that hour,
Who set the circle
...

In front of the telly,
Laptop open on Facebook as usual,
Ollie shouts his agreement with the book's
Manifesto.
...

Mixed with leaves and woody detritus
The path leads, as ever,
Through the memories and yells of
Kids.
...

Bed early this evening,
Saturday,
Wife at a sick friend’s,
Kids in London.
...

At Temple Meads
The office block was red
And dingy,
Half hidden at the bottom of the
...

When the allotments
Called in February
From the back,
And a green day
...

Just a walk, the sun in,
And back,
Old pics on the computer,
And Sam Smith.
...

I have made the phone calls,
Trusting the work will come
In time for me to pay my way.
...

She hangs her clothes,
And everyday she fills her life
With walking dogs or
The endless wash.
...

I must stop nibbling
At nuts and raisins,
Or texting my son about
Nothing,
...

And what of the others? ,
What will they say? ,
That I was never
Good enough? ,
...

Your mother was right
Of course,
‘Too old' she said,
‘It will end in tears.'
...

I have cleaned the house;
They are in London still;
I wait for Dr Martin.
...

Somehow her mum
Looked Scottish,
A jutting lower lip
And beady blue eyes.
...