Llantony-the priory and after.




More colours in the valley,
dream trip, a postcard hip,
lights in strangers eyes.

Stone falling and free,
call me sweet memory book to the sea,
herb garden eternity,
then the boy scouts ignored me
and tied me to a tree.

But the sweet hippy,
with a rug on a string,
told me it’s better to sing.

Oh land of my grandfather,
how young you did die,
the flowers on your wife’s grave,
give cause to the why
and poor old Selwyn,
gave us a fag,
a lovely locks nephew took a drag,
blurring out in the down drain,
smell the urchins feel the rain,
the anger of a king broke this gods ring
and the priory stones mock silently,
the free.

Sing a song of sixpence,
the child discovers a tree,
it's in the marjoridor,
that you shall be me.

Down to Abergeveny in a cool escort,
drum the drum and add a naught,
in the shires community care,
came to share,
we bought her a pint,
the usual story, poverty neglect and banal state drugs,
I shot a few, takin' the piss local piss artists,
refrained from pulling out my hair.

Oh sell me in the old junk shop,
a lovely coffee and ice cream with a cherry on the top,
skip the mile
and learn to shop.

Loony bins to hard core,
how we dreamed it would be true,
the fat pig of psychiatry,
begging to be served up with a pear,
I don’t tie my shoelaces,
barefoot with hippy hair.

No more case notes no more pain,
fight back hard and feel the gain,
their is a prophet to be found,
in eternal rain.

A shower of sparks,
lit the head valley,
dreams of peace,
at the Ally Pally.

Long resting in the byre,
warm in the fire,
to lay my head on your blodwyn breast,
white chalk holy man and a council nest,
as the owls called back,
twit twit t-woo,
this fool that colours love,
learning to plough through,
to wake to sun and quiet head,
live your life and love the dead,
as breakfast mellowed into afternoon.

An old soldiers peace car,
took us far,
to where the books make a mellow tune,
Hay on Wye.

Trip the light fantastic,
hear the biro click,
a few old tills and electric bills,
dead poets by the score,
from Longfellow to Lord Byron,
sweet Dylan to the sea,
who will pay for fresh words?
who will feed this bee?
as the red school bell,
called me to the square,
a fine welcome,
full of freckles and sunset hair.

To dither and dather,
with eloquent ease,
the lads turned up,
oh did we tease,
our dream beyond the stars,
back to the camp in Escort cars,
to find that the duke of Edinburgh had arrived,
so we brewed up and twoed up
and played some football,
for walkers of hills turned out to be a bore,
so I read some Longfellow,
and watched the rams balls,
swing like a traveller's sack,
as the new model army calls.

Who sings for the simple,
never dances alone,
the paper crown and the fools throne,
but better by half,
the poor mad calf,
than a million sane bulls,
trying to laugh.

Woody Guthrie was not in the Abbey bar,
to many Guardian Volvo car,
only an old hippy to mar,
the lady’s wish against a star,
as Buttons the biker roared into view,
all hale the pact much love to do.

Back to the Half Moon,
oh loony tune,
sparrows chirrup,
and blow up the balloon,
the giro bedsit,
and the old croon,
where’s the Moroccan factory?
here is a broom,
sweep up sweet child,
do not worry,
in your tiger kitten bedroom.

Up to the stop of Old Square,
care, care, care,
share, share, share.

She kissed me in the valley of ours,
for dream castles will become stars,
the green herb cures the knife,
wet in the ancient rock with my Saturday wife.

Oh tenement of our turret desire,
fly your flag,
set love afire.

Gently she fed me peaches,
and healing leaches,
our peace was for all,
the sweet crew back in the baronial hall,
the stones sing gently from the deep rich sea,
see the birds sunning in the old Rowan tree.

Alfred had me made,
by Albion's ever glade,
where armour is but serving bowl,
no more war, Sky bridge tolls,
gentle sisters all in feeling,
light the candle make whole the healing,
such colours in the sky,
heal, heal, heal and fly,
sweet bird of the wonder why,
tinkers, beasts, Bevan treats,
all the miners will have a go at the fair,
come sharp muse,
let down your braid hair.

She shall have music,
wherever she goes,
cry bitter fruit,
the water stone flows.

Purr, purr goes the castle cat,
naught in the full berry,
do we lack.

Out to the rolling hills,
Lisa minxed with mischief,
looking for love and tales at the tills,
the ground waiting for the first falling leaves.

Oh did they come thick and fast,
from kirk and byre a welcome fire,
for had not the S.N.P.,
said in the Plaid Cymru tree,
it is not the English you fool,
it is you who must make the golden rule,
no sounding brass hollow here,
free whiskey in the pub and a friendly barrel of beer,
grouse and a free glass for Rodney the painter;
for the midwife Sue,
a winter scene in christening gown hue;
for the mother of us all, Toni,
got a hand made Celt round and tall,
all protection round the one,
from barrow down to virgin birth,
we are worth,
we are earth,
as the team gets ready for the pub,
spit on the sawdust, a gentle rub,
for democracy is gentler than death,
so seth us all,
as I fell slowly to the fire,
the sound of rock music and the dishwasher.

So this is Scotland Andrew Kerr,
fair blows the weather,
bare feet in the heather,
one more coal on the fire.

Carlisle’s letters of Oliver Cromwell,
turn on a sixpence love under a tree,
but there was a certain rhyme and reason,
for sure it was pieces and shares in season,
the voice of the people,
is the voice of God,
the Goddess weeps, the blood red dove,
but writ with care,
we can stare,
into the time tunnel of the how it was,
no end to it all, peace because,
that is the way the fruit trees but,
in a quiet orchard with rest,
no more sword and cannonade,
just oat cakes and lemonade,
and beer fit to raise a brew,
all hail the victor,
all hail the true.

Democracy, a dear dear friend,
sucked at my mothers tit,
raised with no fear,
lay a hay penny on their brave grave,
and sweet will be the cheer.

The candle nods in blinking light,
I drift into thankfulness,
picking up Dylan Thomas’s letters,
that dream that undoes fetters,
the candle spluttered and died,
oh how he danced, oh how Caitlin tried.

I sang a ditty to the ghosts in the hall,
may the candle black cover the ceiling,
much happy dancing and reeling,
and may there upon be writ these words.

Candle dies, as candle must,
put your words in peace and trust,
before the children of the world,
we are heard, like the cool clear stream,
love is keen,
full moonbeam.

Elizabeth, Mary, Charles and Oliver,
met together in the air,
let them dance with holding care,
till the pear trees let go their pear,
warp and weft of the past, honeysuckle, sweet sir.

A good M.P. is hard to get,
letters from the bedsit he answered,
for if there isn’t a roof over your head,
Julius the peoples Silver man,
will find you one yet.

So I mellow down,
in the evening clatter,
pies in the oven,
and gentle chatter,
for brides are beautiful in Chechnya,
cleaning the glasses, getting ready the bar,
mash peas and chicken pie,
two fingers of whiskey the red fire high,
the sound of voices ringing around,
the course of our humanity is bound,
shall I play the fool and raise a laugh,
the standard in the fireworks,
makes a celebration park,
six foot walls and great halls,
we beg the ghosts to play,
the Beatles in Scotland on radio 2,
all you need is love,
every morning to get you through,
the bats in the belfry talk to the dove,
silver thread for the master’s button,
cut the thread and undo the line,
we are more than twine,
the first squatters shall live by candle time.

I hear the sound of New Age Travellers,
treat them well, or love will unravel us,
as children shout in the great space,
bounce the ball, love to the disabled race,
as I gave the matchmaker,
silver ring charms,
to the lady’s of the pancake,
do no harm
and raised a stone as high as the blue,
the spiral twist,
love to you,
light green healing and dance,
with law and a chance,
carve me a whistle from the hawthorn,
the pity is yet to be born,
no more head shorn,
braids in the tresses,
girls in wool dresses.

And the colours were autumn,
reds and browns and golden seas,
hear the cake bowl ring,
there are bees,
whisper the trees,
whisper the trees.

Full closed book,
dream time is calling,
let our harvest not be barren,
the sweaters on Aaron
and kids with smudgy faces
for tinkers shall ply their trade,
the full plot the T.P. glade,
sunlight on water,
to Gaia a daughter,
dreamed for all time,
a friend of the wine,
sea shells and twine,
salt fish for a sign
and the table laden with hope,
full harvest,
crimson berries for children
and new tales at the telling,
welcome.

Deep sleep after a full draught,
the well awaits the morn cold and fresh,
as nuzzling sounds come forth from the crèche
and mothers love is at peace,
dream house lease.



For are you not my brother, my friend?
is there not an end,
to hate and war,
tell me do you have the poor,
amongst, like sparrows in hedgerows?
does light fall on unemployment,
as on the heads of the rich?
play your tune piper
and put your begging cap on your head,
for love will raise the dead,
there is bread for us all,
a tune for wages,
all in stages,
the beasts wait their fate,
with scudding patience,
candles are lit for farmers,
do no harm to us please,
to lost in the dance,
the wild horses dash and prance
and songs from America
open passions doors.

As the musical peace battalion,
blows away cobwebs,
dropped from Hueys,
the best hopeless weed,
their is honour in your comrades
and a light at the wall,
let sweet peace come to call,
to many lost from the hip battalion,
wild pasture grazing stallions,
of our mind.

Feed the children well,
for they shall wash at the clean river,
acorn and loose chestnut,
forget them not and Rose,
one more time sweet lady’s,
nuzzle your hope in prose,
the bairn puts on the warm jacket of gentle sleep
and the last summer swallow,
wishes in watership does,
as
the hills over the rise,
a fly zips energetically,
and a lucky coalman's coal lorry,
bounces slowly with its load of diamonds,
for cold pensioners and kinder gardens,
the roar of the Tornado,
passes through the castle walls,
as it steams at full Whittle,
to a beautiful cinematic sky,
per ardua ad astra,
friends of us all.

I settle into tears and rest,
so young they were and so free,
can we ever repay,
love the day
and see our children fed,
per ardua ad astra,
friends of us all.

Then that black dog crept,
into my, cannot I wonder why?
love on the dole,
where’s the misses,
this warm prison,
is becoming a hole,
so I walked gently across the wire,
on one crutch next to the fire,
but they came back to rescue me,
all my friends from the Crown.

Happily healthy,
in a tattooed gown,
love for dreamers,
hope for schemers.

Drinking that extra tax extra cider,
whiskey being to expensive for this spider,
home grown, like hill brandy,
handy, Andy Pandy,
dribble, dribble, dribble,
and so to zzzz's,
I’m leaving you and so is my Ted,
said my love as we went to bed,
as we grinded like a steam train,
rain, rain, rain,
`till Bob, parachuting outta the blankets,
on white lightening, Irn Bru and whiskey,
very frightening,
banged his head hard,
and Carol's laughter rang like a flood drain,
Lisa and I, cuddled up,
what bad luck what pain,
deep sleep healing again.

Families learn patience here,
for sure you can hear every tear,
the drifting day, sparkle suns away,
full orb of the harvest,
heaven behind the velvet grey.

The cleaners are treated to tea,
with the mellow poet,
strong and sure,
sometimes I believe to much,
except, feather dusters in the mind,
I like being tickled by potato pickers,
it is a rare treat, is it not Vincent?
a bottle of Absinthe stands,
reflecting the café lights,
the evening begins,
we are lost,
at what cost?

Sunflowers, the last of summer,
your lover on a brown paper bag,
come sweetly with her,
forever full moon,
the flashing fire of wild broom,
beside the railway track.

After a deep sleep,
timorous beastie does talk to me,
thanks for the love and peace,
I pay no toll or lease.

Awake to Gerry’s bar,
the stations of the rock and roll cross,
shame you did not hang out with hips and whore,
share your love with communal trips,
our music was free
and illuminated the tree,
as the travellers child,
bites into the autumn full
and apple juice runs down his fair chin,
the hope of kith and kin,
laughter in the school yard,
write your story
and feel the gain,
full harvest in the barn,
that rain cannot harm,
bread on the table,
we are able,
out to sun and Stranraer,
5 Brummys in a workers car,
into the museum,
full of light and past endeavour,
fill the milk churn,
stereo pictures for the fair,
over the road into the Golden Cross,
lottsa love and no loss,
gently, gently the grain does heal,
tides washing the
the fair to steal,
so far from the sea is sweet Birmingham,
as I undo your blouse
and suckle from Pan,
eternity and a G.P.O. van,
letters home to me mam.

Bought a happy bunny,
in gentle Charlotte street, Ra,
tie me up in a ribboned bar.

A pound for the kid,
who’ll have to cope,
with more than Ian Dury,
read the story,
my only disability is others,
good friends make good brothers.

As we sped back to Castle of Park,
the park keepers gone home,
but not the lark,
put coal on the fire
and read the visitors book,
its all there,
take a look.

Waiting for the evening meal
our last night,
no tears,
dream of light,
quiet at the head of the table,
the last flash of the brave western kite,
pray peace on Israel and Palestine,
come old friend and share our last wine,
the breads on the table
and there is no crime,
in quiet conversation,
eat, the table is laden.

So to Bacchus and music,
the last holiday tales,
put down your hammer,
next to those nails.

Lion snuggles up to unicorn,
as a Rass blow, glows up, round the fire,
and the poet gets out her lyre,
songs of ages, songs yet new,
pass the parcel,
we’ll get through.

zzzz`s and dreaming `till dawn,
Queen fishes' that do spawn,
love on the dole
and fertility,
to dream, the eternal sea.

Love me tender, love me child,
deep in the wild forest waiting,
back to Arden’s dappled glade,
such great plays were made,
William, autumn fruit tasting,
Puck and Pan,
youth so wild,
bow deep in the full moon,
to the audience of great trees,
hear the Pink Fairies playing,
be at your ease,
children are again camping on the common land,
but no rifles this time,
dip deep into the star bowl,
fishes from the sea,
little me and Jack Horner,
and Miss Muffet to,
can I milk the cow dad,
is their honey still for tea?

Yes, yes, it’s true,
all the poet said
and much more to,
this poem, this dream for you.

~