The Ambitious Drifter

Words, Images and The Occasional Noise


First Contact

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First Contact.

Spaceships in the shrubbery
Galactic UFOs
Hiding in our pot plants
While setting up their probes.

The martian fleet has landed
But they’re really very small,
Really very pretty
But milimetres tall

What massive forces built these,
Such symmetry and grace?
The aliens have arrived at last
To meet the human race.


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My neighbour is out digging
I can smell the soil from here
From the damp winter’s darkness
He pulls mould and last year’s leaves.
He’s out in the field
But the air is clean
The scent comes in on
The wind in my window.
He plants every year
But it’s under the trees,
Not enough sun
To make a prize of these.
Myself, I’ve grown
Better beans.
It makes a calendar for his life
And probably now for me
With my vast new kitchen garden,
A single pot of parsely seeds.


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2 Poems, 2 Photos.

Cold Soldiers.

I’m three colours blue, minding,
Do you mind,
Not my own business.
Unknown now, this dead guy here
Was once a friend of mine.

We waited in the cold, turned blue,
Becoming single stones.
The serious business of death,
Your head a hat of snow.

Not my business, but for my town.
In turn we went down there.
Turned to stone,in neat rows,
A retreat in perfect order.

Inconvenient for your freeways
And business parks, we keep
Neat file, rank, name and number
In the middle of your fields.
Well, some not name nor number,
Known but to God, if He recalls.

Still a damp business, believe me,
Our cold forgotten sleep.
But our world is gone away now
And no one left to weep.
I wish you now to leave unknown
The story of our pain.
Best left like last year’s snow,
Or a freezing Monday’s rain.

We fell quietly like snowflakes,
No two of us quite the same.
As if they checked,
Although they tried
To ask the name of this dead guy.


Monument to the Belgian Infantry., Brussels,Belgium..


It would be useful, I think
To be buried close by
– still in the town
near the river maybe
to have the next-doors neighbourly
on the odd off chance
of a resurrection
in the classical sense
we can huddle with friends
while shading our eyes
and gaze in confusion
and sleepy surprise
‘those were our children,
–  and those theirs’
see of our neighbours
who makes it Upstairs.

blue door1 Blue door, Montmartre cemetery,Paris,France.

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This was to be my castle

Built from such ancient stones,

I wondered in my childish way

If this old house had ghosts.

Not knowing then that soon enough

I’d haunt this place myself.

Being not quite real, not quite here,

The quietest of quiet lives.

Rarely seen, sometimes heard

My presence barely felt

Watching their world through the window

My neighbours and their lives.

Their ghosts are all around them

In these old family homes,

Living still in memories

While I drift here alone.