Heron as Anglo-Saxon style warrior, a paean to a vintage alarm clock, a march, a terrible pun on an old car.

All four first appeared on Black Bough Poetry’s TopTweetTuesday.
This month I also have a poem on London Grip – you can read it
here: ‘Spring Gathering’

Pond warrior

Holding the line, until 
the last – a sudden stabbing 
thrust – surface water sunders,
like a broken shield-wall. 
The feather-bone forged 
sword of Long Neck the Patient, 
pulls off another kill.

Morning star

Lime green face, once radiant, 
against a bed of night-sky blue, 
faded in the light, betrays long years 
of service. Eighties dayglo lustre, 

lost along the way. Sticker-sullied, 
scratched plastic cased, the thing ticks 
on. Doling out the minutes over decades. 
Silver second hand, with wand-like star 

on top, continues to cast a reassuring 
click, when sweeping through the hours. 
Shrill, pulsed alarm still shocks when set. 
Funny that – of all items I’ve possessed, 

a child’s clock, never built to last, 
has been the most consistent. Kermit 
the Frog, mouth gaping, shocked, 
survives to mark my time. 

The Raptor Rally

Masked and garlanded,
march walked 

into June, demanded 
nature be restored,

slipping streets 
in company of seers 

– crimson cloaked 
like blooded ghosts –

crowds filed into a square, 
to be addressed by peregrines 

tilting London sky into a nod, 
as though bestowing an elemental

blessing, before withdrawing 
to a vacant tower.

Meta-Ford

No Springsteen rusting angel: 
our crisp-crumb patinated chariot 
of fourteen years, was more mould 
infested mule than uncanny 
oily entity. Not shot – given-up 
for auction. What matters is 
the memories it took us to and from, 
our youngest son declared.