to the further points
of the cliff top,
to find the gulls
in their natural habitat,

watch them work their way up-wind
then turn and soar away with barely
a flicker of wing tips in a display
of, what seems to me, sheer joy,

almost as if they are celebrating,
praising, their wind-defined world.

I make a cup of coffee
lean out my window, drink it
while smoking a cigarette.

A long-tailed tit
on its own, unusual,
flies into my tree,
pauses long enough
to sing to me, flies on.

That, I decide,
is what the poem meant.

my mind flirts with dark places;
things best left alone
but never, ever, thrown away,

allows cups of tea to work their magic,
moves past the question Do I exist?
and arrives at a better place

where I know again who I am
and am prepared to tackle
what things the day may bring.

Lonely? –
ran across
the surface of my mind,
slid out over my shoulder,
down my back
and, barely stopping,
left my body
via the big toe
on my left foot
before scuttling
across the floor
to become trapped
by the spider’s web
in the cubby hole
behind the cooker.

Grateful? –
stayed with me,
helped me celebrate
the start of a New Year.

There are no such things as seagulls
the man once said.
There are
black-headed gulls,
Mediterranean gulls,
yellow-legged gulls,
herring gulls,
little gulls,
lesser and greater black-backed gulls,
glaucous gulls,
Iceland gulls,
common gulls,
kittiwakes
and Sabine’s gulls.
There are no such things as seagulls.

Seventy miles from the sea
in any direction,
and I can hear
herring gulls.

But there are others, common too,
whose songs, if I can train my ears,
are separate, distinct;
the robin, thin and soft;
I might see him
especially if I wear red.
A wren, from around knee-high,
loud and with a trill,
a dunnock, burbling
from deep in the bushes,
and, of course, long-tailed tits;
I can hear them from out my window
as they arrive, mob-handed,
in the tree outside and chatter.

I will take a picture if I can
but mostly I will listen,
for I want to learn
to listen,
to listen to bird song.

This poem owes everything to Simon Barnes. It was his book – ‘Birdwatching with your eyes closed’ which inspired me to listen in the first place.

Today I saw a little worm
wriggling on his belly.
Perhaps he’d like to come inside
and see what’s on the telly.

Spike Milligan

Celia Celia

When I am sad and weary
When I think all hope has gone
When I walk along High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on.

Adrian Mitchell

Launderette

As she bent down, to retrieve
her underwear from the machine,
it became apparent she had put
all her knickers in the wash.

David Agnew

Happy Christmas everyone.

But this time,
I am waiting
for a poetry event,
for friends to arrive,
for a cup of coffee;
waiting, not craving

as I used to do
when it was alcohol
I was craving:
two hands around
a pint glass
to still the shaking.

Such a relief
when corner shops
got licensed
to sell alcohol.
No more waiting
except  in the small hours.

A newspaper,
a packet of fags
and a bottle of scotch
because I am waiting
for visitors to call later
I would say,

dressed in a duffel coat
over my pyjamas
and a sweater;
unwashed, unshaven,
waiting – waiting
outside the shop.

I lean out my window,
drink a coffee,
smoke a cigarette,
contribute to the gloom.

A young woman with a pony-tail
appears, disappears,
jogging through the mist.
I wonder what benefit
she hopes to gain from breathing in polluted air.

I answer my phone; did not mean to – just did. Why on earth do bloody salesmen cold-call me on a Sunday morning – I am not remotely interested in anything they have to say – resist the temptation to tell him to fuck off – replace the phone firmly and remind myself that I have an answering service – if I don’t pick up, my own voice will invite you to leave a message .Friends will leave a message, salesmen never do. I have a friend who, on certain occasions, would rather talk to my answering machine than directly to me – she knows she can talk to it without fear of interruption, censure or rebuke – this is not a call for help on her part, rather just the opportunity to rant out loud.

She calls to see me today,
needing more than
an answering machine
or a telephone call can provide.

We sit together,
side by side,
take comfort
in the peace,
the stillness
of Sunday morning
in the city.

The birds are planning
their day excitedly
out there
she thought,
sent me a text to tell me that,
turned over,
went back to sleep.

When I turned on my phone,
sometime later,
I felt like I’d been kissed.