Grahame Lockey

Autumn born and autumn led
Autumn named, maybe autumn wed
For who knows what the wind will blow around your knees
Or what will fall
...

What to buy a woman who’s grown up with quality,
who sums its parts up, knows the names it calls us with?

What would suit a woman who wears the right decision,
...

With a wind tan of what gets to him, he
turns his back on what is beckoning,
knowing it's bringing, red-lettered,
a date with it - one he may never learn.
...

...

Like gnats, strange lights bother
the marsh. Crickets chirp, bats
skim across the ale-dark night
and a breeze rustles the leaves
...

A breakable silence held
until a tear rolls
into a sob
and you turn away your face.
...

It comforts some to see life
as a journey to a happy land,
where the holiday sun never sets.
Heaven – no maps exist; no one
...

nought
or a hoop
to play with,
jump through;
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Swarthy brow and barley fingers; nails with cheerless moons of grime;
Deadweight sackcloth suit coarse fitting; long his laughter, short your time.
His hand on your shoulder makes you older, holds you where the clocks don’t chime.
His grinning bearhug makes you bolder; reason does not sit with rhyme.
...

At the end of escalators out, wind
drives rain hard into the face -
umbrellas can't withstand it.
...

The image is of feet
at the unshifting edge
of a dirty reflection.
Two scuffed shoes
...

A long time ago there were things called stars
They were up in the heavens with Venus and Mars,
Along with the moon, a dusty old ball
That hasn’t been sighted for decades at all.
...

Someone punts
through the low-lying mist
on the still Neckar,
a distraction from empty boats
...

One day, I took you to school on my shoulders, punch proud.
At first light, the heat was already as thick and itchy as wool,
and everything had the colour of a photo that has seen too much sun.
You swayed with the rhythm of my gait, little hands holding on
...

The youngest bird has the widest beak,
Not one for playing hide and seek –
Straight for the kill, neck or gill.
Not one for elbows on the window sill.
...

Tessie, here’s a song for you, half a life in the knowing
Though water may pass by, it’s the river that is flowing
Eh? What’s that? You ask. Come again? I don’t follow
Things change, Poppet, and there are times, it can be hard to swallow. But
...

Apple-cheeked, golden-haired
infants, all bare
podgy, ballooning
piously unleash the air -
...

Milk face, nuzzling a nipple from a pillow. It's not there.
You rub your face in bib. Only bib. Blanket. Only blanket.
Screwing up your pale paper face, you make a big noise.
...

The nest becomes a cage -
two gripping feet relax:
the earth-bound bird kicks off
and we break bravely free.
...

Herminia, 61, aslumber at her sea-food stall
dreamed the port was rocking like a boat
and woke to find it was.
...