Rusting rails slipping into a listless shingle They used to carry fish freshly caught Railway wagons dry rotting In a surreal landscape These all interest me Sea Cabbages and Red Valerian Dry grasses burnt gold Dungeness in Late August What a garden I have I share it with myself

clouds with a blunt pencil deserts do that to you when the summer ends

In the garden at Prospect Cottage I found a couple stretched out Looking at the sky I pretended not to notice And released this quiet poem It was the least that I could do

Hi Joe Maureen It is nice to hear from you Alan and I have split up We both tried hard But we are so different I am sorry to hear that As you can imagine I am quite liquid at present But thought that I was drying up Until I read your Sussex poems They […]

When I visit East Sussex On summer days I always bring a pad and a pen My pad stays with me Whilst my pen explores

On hot summer days A silence descends Which is so loud That it almost deafens Everything is quite still Yet frozen in motion

About a month ago I found myself On a lonely railway station In East Sussex It was surrounded By golden cornfields I was happy there

I have been called a winter writer On many occasions recently Which is so far from the truth As I am a child of the summer cornfields

My father once told me That if I wanted To discover the truth Behind any issue Then consult the statistics As they are rarely incorrect Unless they have been Previously contaminated By those who wish harm Joe

Joe Many people think that you are * ***** ** **** I am * ***** ** **** When you joke You do not take prisoners I will not be censored by fools A question I know that you like cartoons And have a collection of Giles books That is correct What was your favourite cartoon […]