Geoffrey Winch Poems

No roof over his head
no regular bed,
roughed it so long
he's lost his looks,
...

The town has lost its soul – sold it
down the Thames and Kennet,
even its Holy Brook –
...

Of course the politicians argued long and hard about keeping parking for cars in the Market Square once the paving enhancement works were done. The pro-parkers won of course so fresh plans were drawn and the contract let although the deadline for the annual Mop Fair was rapidly counting down - tradition was everything. But contractor Paul was reassuring - he had just the right man for the job -

wheeler/dealer, foreman/ganger,
problem solver on the hoof -
...

With his broad broom
Mr Swain swept our road.
Little leaves of litter,
cigarette butts and dust
...

ineffable vapours randomly conjoining speak of re-energising chaos itself serendipitously flagging-up an era of dimensions as inexplicable as the continuum of lore, rearranging the disorder of habitual dynamics, causing boundless expansion to the plasma of time, compressing motes into lava to violently erupt, weighting parameters to accept servile intelligence and realms of perception into more understanding, foregrounding the notion of a total existence, cooling boulders into being bounded by heavens all round while more dark and meandering vapours react in unison igniting invisible solary rays to reflect and refract until light is defined as the presence of day, such inspiration

evolving into quickening energy, acting and reacting to promote the next destination, light being born from natural volition proceeding to death with its consequent darkening, the realising of night with its free spirit asserting a hiding-place for still-secret dimensions while revealing how light so magically mastered might revert into bright sky again
...

On this day
forty years ago
it rained.
...

Tide
is in:
hand in hand
along the prom
...

asked to guess
what might be hidden inside
a box
...

With Auntie(Warwickshire)

We drove - only to have a look at you - just the few miles down the Fosse Way to the farm where you'd been born but, with our cheque book at the ready, we knew you'd be hard to resist. Named you then and there after Gerald Durrell's TV pet - ‘Roger' seemed a perfect fit. So, after your Mummy Sunshine's farewell lick (your Daddy being out working sheep)
...