Bedford

I was born and raised and live uplands
on rolling hills and open moors,
bare and edging wild and comfortably worn,
but sought connection by the river side:
a sweeping flooding lowland drain
crewed by 8s 4s pairs / and single sculls.

I stood alone and open / below
the crossing of the broadening reach
that stretches left downstream
and lives and scares in equal measure:
deep and swift and rising / to encompass
rowers, swimmers – and the drowned.

I walked in the rain, I stalked along
the auburn decked embankment,
a yellow flecked containment
of an autumn season’s flow;
I played my part, to arouse sorcery
with a tall and slender southern belle….

To join / in brief intense encounter
to fall / over the river’s edge
to reach / across the riverbank
to touch, as one / who’s swept away….
…. coursing with the rhythm of the cycle
that marks out who we are….

Swept free! By currents welling from below,
sourced in vein-traced clear chalk aquifers,
fed through downland confluence / swollen
by the month’s run-off, today’s rainfall
and what else lies beneath / remote
from what’s reflected on the surface.

Con the Saxe and Fey the Gael (part 4)

Nor had she given him fair warning, for the choice was not a gift.
In exchange she’d own his soul, he’d lose himself, but more:
whatever he selected would be charged against his people,
who would lack as long as he would live. And the hidden trick,
Fey’s risk, if he declined to choose, would open all her secrets.

Knowing none of this, he paused a second – and that saved him.
She held out the prizes she had summoned up, visible in air,
to tempt him further on – and they were taken from her!
The dark wind and chill that travelled with her master
whipped them away; then her, entire, with a single cry of dread.

The naive young sprite now faced her punishment thrice over,
having revealed herself and then consorted with a mortal,
she’d offered him a fatal choice, which was not hers to give.
Stripped of her gifts, her ragged wings, torn while barely dry,
she was driven into exile – but without mortality’s cold mercy.

Now the man was truly shaken. His homing instinct took him
to his village, quest unfulfilled, desire for it quenched;
his skin broken, open wounds infected by the Other,
dazed, confused, distracted, lacking will and energy
he stumbled into the gate-fire, that cauterised his flesh.

So Con the heedless lived on, in long prosperity, but mocked:
for the lameness in his right leg and his scar, his new mark,
a flaring livid crimson slash, all down his side, the sinister,
from ear and jaw down chest and arm to groin and thigh.
Rooted in the soil, the kelpie’s words forgotten, the haunted man remained.

Con the Saxe and Fey the Gael (part 3)

Released, her comely slender demi-curves entranced his eye,
her voice was sibilant and smooth, her accent strange
as, freed at last, implacable and beautiful and shivering,
she turned to him in spite and fear and wonder, asking:
Who are you? Who dares come here? On a full moon!

Con spoke his name, and lineage, insensible in pride;
And who are you? Who gives no gratitude for rescue?
I am Fey, a Gael,
she said – a truth, a lie, in the same breath,
which her magic neither knew nor cared, the morals
of mortal men as closed to her as their designs were open.

So she enticed him on, entrancingly engorged his pride,
seductively she took his life in hand and mouth
and kept herself inviolate, while she swallowed him:
the man, the foolish earthen man, who blindly sought
his pleasure and yet never knew the danger he embraced….

Until at last, satisfied relaxed and spent,
he saw – too late – her eyes unmasked: a clear
fierce shocking radiance brighter than the moon
and redolent of threat more imminent than
the longest sharpest tusks a boar has ever grown….

The spirits flared in her, through her their powers flowed,
but cat-like she played with him, offering a grateful choice of gift:
one dry – a polished silver apple – one wet – liquid crystal water –
unreckoning the game had risk for her as well as him,
for they were neither hers to give; nor did he have to choose;

Con the Saxe and Fey the Gael (part 2)

Though Tyrel the boar was far away that night (ravaging elsewhere),
Con’s luck and fate, his doom, were near: he sensed not saw:
movement flicker in the moonlight: he stared and saw: a horse:
a colt or filly, pure yearling, beautiful and white (or grey),
gazing rapt into a still dark pool, as if reflection lingered there.

He crept closer, struck by awe and dazed by fascination,  until
his farmer’s tread betrayed him and broke her concentration;
startled!  unawares!  she turned and ran from him
revealing her true nature in her surprise and haste:
…. a spirit or a kelpie, a familiar, a magical young changeling.

The solitary man, foolhardy man, forgetful of his purpose, followed her ….
lost her from his sight …. then heard a whinnied cry
echo in a weird and shaded grove, more ancient than he knew,
which chilled him all the same, but, heedlessly and wilfully
Con pushed ahead and grappled through the copse;

And blinked, and looked away, and looked again:
she was transformed:  changed to a faerie, thin and sallow pale,
trapped in a jagged bush that caught and tore her wings.
He pitied her.  He stepped forward.  With care,
Con freed her from the thorns, one by agonising one;

Careless of the cuts his body bore unnoticed,
scratched through living bleeding flesh to bone
by the bush he’d entered step by step, each thorn a barb
inflamed by mistletoe – the fatal plant of older myth –
Con was compassioned by her pain beyond his own.

Con the Saxe and Fey the Gael (part 1)

Once there was a man named Con, a fair-born Saxe,
the only son of Frowh, seventh son of Eorfr, a potent man;
born in easternland, come oversea, swept from the risen sun,
set now on a village edge, a commensal, forbye a market town,
far over on the marches of cold North, uneasy West.

One harvest moon, a full moon, hanging water,
by the light of that full moon, he went alone,
Con strode abroad when canny men were tight abed;
long of stride, far sighted, but not so full of wisdom,
he went at night in hope to track and win his fame.

Hefting his grandfather’s spear, stout and carefully refurbished,
girt with his father’s bright short-bladed sword,
clad in weft and woven cloak against the chill,
fitting to his stern and weathered eyes and field-strong arm,
he stalked abroad at night to prove his name.

He sought a boar, old Tyrel the boar,
wily and mean, stubborn, tusked and strong,
long in teeth and cunning ways,
bristled and grizzled and pungent and sore,
which gorged as if by right on the villagers’ spring crops.

Bold Con the Saxe stole quietly through the gathering trees,
distracted by his plans, until he lost his star ….
…. he paused a while to catch a breath,
protected by his dark-red cloak, he peered around, to realise
perhaps he’d come too far: there may be peril in this wood.

AS81

I went to slake my melancholy
In your vibrant lap of life;
In my mind, my fantasy,
I leapt forward to fulfilment,
Fired by fondest memories
Of familiar pleasures past;

To reconnect with you, my dear,
And find out how you’ve been –
Who knows what lies beneath
The simplest touch of life?
From a woman who loves pink
And prefers to eat blue steak….

I promised too much, too soon,
And delivery fell through;
Hesitated, as weakness laid me low
(With hints of age and frailty);
Then faltered, once we’d agreed,
So – after hope – I let you down.

Yes, anyway, the fault was mine,
I cannot change it now –
Explain? What use is that!
– Only try to make amends.
Am I forgiven? Unforgiven?
Or cut off like a knife?

Not knowing leaves me free:
To hope, to meet again,
To walk that path with you
One day, just for a while,
When you may let me know
What I am allowed to do.

Slave Girl Part 1

You cared enough: —-
to pin me down; to tie me up; to show me pain; (and how to cope); to rape my arse; to fuck my throat; to make me sick; (and then clean up); to blame me for your fault; (and always criticise);
to chase after me; (and make me feel guilt); to show you’re weak; to show you’re strong; (and how you’re rich); to twist it round; to mess my mind; (and make me feel I’d hurt you); and favour me, a little.

How good it is: to know you care for me.

I love you so!
how much you care
how strong you are, for me
when I have dried my tears
and begged an amnesty
for all my faults.

And I remember!
how good it was
when we were new.
We’ll go back there soon,
I know, once I heal
my scars, for you.

I left. I am bereft.
I want to spend my life with you;
how can I cope without you?
I love you so. I need you so.
Take care of me!
For who am I, alone?

Simple words

My secret is no mystery:
I miss you and I want you,
To taste, and more, to feel you,
Firm and broad and hooded

And hardening in my mouth,
To fill that space inside me,
All concentrated nerves;
Overwhelms me with desire.

I’ll hold your body tight against me
In reciprocal delight:
If 23’s a magic number
Then 69 is best of all!

Hot and eager, wet and willing,
Intimate and tender, rough and curly,
Purest joy and purely carnal:
May be sustaining, never ends?

As I will always come for you,
Will you for me, at last?
Then overcome, restraint forgotten!!
And flooded out of mind —-