DURHAM

photo by Peter Dixon

Cobbled webs of my thoughts

hang around your lanes.

A brass band nestles in my head,

cosy as a bed bug.

I’m reading from a balcony

poems of Revolution.

It’s Gala Day and the words are lost

in the coal dust of your lungs.

Your dark satanic brooding Gaol

throws a blanket over blankness:

a grim era of second hand visions

aches like a scab in a cell.

And rowing a punt up your Bishop’s arse

a shaft of sunlight on the river

strikes me only as true,

shining into the eyes of all the prisoners

swinging from Cathedral bells.

Old Durham Town, you imprison me

like a scream in a Salvation Army song,

release me soon:

someone 

get ready to hug me.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

THE BIRD WOMAN OF WHITLEY BAY

Photo by Tony Whittle 

THE BIRD WOMAN OF WHITLEY BAY

She is out feeding the birds,

on the dot again,

in the drizzle of a seaside morning;

the seed 

cast fom her hand

to the jerking beak of a cock pheasant.

She is alone 

in a flock of dark starlings,

scattering crumbs to make them shriek.

She is a friend of spuggies,

gives blackbirds water.

Her eyes fly across the garden

to catch a quick robin,

to spot a wee wren,

to chase a bold magpie.

She is innocence,

she is a lovely old lady;

still giving,

still nursing.

She deserves heaven,

she deserves a beautiful nest

to dream out her last hours 

in bird song;

in the rich colours of music,

in the red feathers of sunset,

she is my mother,

she is a rare bird

who fed me beautiful dreams.

Thank you for letting me climb 

with the skylarks.

Thank you

for the strength of wings. 

KEITH ARMSTRONG

dr keith armstrong live in breda with ad van emmerick!