Hymn of Pan

I wrote the following poem about five weeks ago but never found the time energy or motivation to type it up.

Hymn of Pan


I am the creeping root that breaks

The concrete crust of roads

I kiss the tiny shoot that becomes

A towering, ancient oak.

I am the song of morning

That greets the rising sun

And with the blackbird’s song at dusk

I sing the world to rest

I am the fierce and cunning weasel

And the timid cowering vole

I am the narrow streamlet

And the raging floods of spring

I know the wild and savage seas

And soft wavelets on the strand

I dance where life is starting

And where it comes to its final end

I am nature’s fiercest defender

And her dearest,  oldest friend

A scrap of my life

Covent Garden April 09


A scrap of my life:

Perched on a kerbstone,

Sun hot on one side,

Shade and cool the other,

I watch as feet shod in rainbows

Glitter and catch the fleeing sun;

The endless to and fro

As people of all nations and ages

Stride or dawdle across pavements.

A busker sings Scarborough Fair

Making me feel old and young

In just one brief moment.

The sky: blue and cotton wool.

A breeze tickles my face

With stray hairs while

A sneeze lurks unfulfilled.

Smells of food and coffee

Soap, perfume and petrol

Drift like cunning ghosts

As waves of people wander past.

There’s a hum as if a hundred

Excited crickets all thrummed

And sang in unison:

Twenty languages in ten minutes.

Feet aching, I rest, create a space

Within the hubbub and bustle

Where I can be alone inside,

Enjoying the chance just to BE.

The sun warms the stones, tiny puddles

Shrink and vanish, their furtive gleams

Whispering out, leaving dust and debris

Where silver rain once lay.

Forty-five minutes remain.

Shall I stay or go?

Legs aching, I stay.

Old Cow

Old Cow


From town to town the old cow lows,

Foghorns mooing across the miles;

Unseen cattle calling their herd.

Thick fog wreaths shoreline and sea

Turning mundane matters into mystical,

Hiding dull drabness with veils of white

The mist burns off by mid afternoon

And the sun chases clouds away.

Now that the day is come clear,

Where do the fog-cows graze?