Muscled, black with steel-green eye,
Swishing through the rye grass
With thoughts of mouse-and-apple pie.
Tail balancing at half-mast.

And the mouse police never sleeps,-
Lying in the cherry tree.

Savage bed foot-warmer of purest feline ancestry.
Look out, little furry folk!
He's the all-night working cat.
Eats but one in every ten,
Leaves the others on the mat.

And the mouse police never sleeps,-
Waiting by the cellar door.

Window-box town crier;
Birth and death registrar.
With claws that rake a furrow red,
Licensed to multilate.
From warm milk on a lazy day
To dawn patrol on hungry hate.

No, the mouse police never sleeps,
Climbing on the ivy.
Windy roof-top weathercock.
Warm-blooded night on a cold tile.

I'll make love to you,
In all good places,
Under black mountains,
In open spaces.
By deep brown rivers,
That slither darkly,
Through far marches,
Where the blue hare races.

Come with me to the Winged Isle,
Northern father's western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still,
Through far marches of acres wild.

I'll make love to you,
In narrow side streets,
With shuttered windows,
Crumbling chimneys.

Come with me to the weary town,
Discos silent under tiles,
That slide from roof-tops, scatter softly,
On concrete marches of acres wild.

By red bricks pointed,
With cement fingers
Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.

Come with me to the Winged Isle,
Northern father's western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still,
Through far marches of acres wild.

Keep your eyes open and prick up your ears,
Rehearse your loudest cry.
There's folk out there who would do you harm,
So I'll sing you no lullaby.
There's a lock on the window; there's a chain on the door:
A big dog in the hall.
But there's dragons and beasties out there in the night,
To snatch you if you fall.

So come out fighting with your rattle in hand.
Thrust and parry.
Light a match to catch the devil's eye.
Bring a cross of fire to the fight.

And let no sleep bring false relief,
From the tension of the fray.
Come wake the dead with the scream of life.
Do battle with ghosts at play.

Gather your toys at the call-to-arms,
And swing your big bear down.
Upon our necks when we come to set,
You sleeping safe and sound.

It's as well we tell no lie,
To chase the face that cries.
And little birds can't fly,
So keep an open eye.
It's as well we tell no lie,
So I'll sing you no lullaby.

The leaded window opened,
To move the dancing candle flame,
And the first Moths of summer,
Suicidal came.

And a new breeze chattered,
In its May-bud tenderness.
Sending water-lillies sailing,
As she turned to get undressed.

And the long night awakened,
And we soared on powdered wings,
Circling our tomorrows,
In the wary month of Spring.

Chasing shadows slipping,
In a magic lantern slide,
Creatures of the candle
In a night-light-ride.

Dipping and weaving - flutter,
Through the golden needle's eye,
In our haystack madness.
Butterfly-stroking on a Spring-tide high.

Life's too long (as the Lemming said),
As the candle burned and the Moths were wed.
And we'll all burn together as the wick grows higher ,
Before the candle's dead.

The leaded window opened,
To move the dancing candle flame.
And the first moths of summer,
Suicidal came.

To join in the worship,
Of the light that never dies,
In a moment's reflection,
Of two moths spinning in her eyes.

Spine-tingling railway sleepers,
Sleepy houses lying four-square and firm,
Orange beams divide the darkness,
Rumbling fit to turn the waking worm.
Sliding through Victorian tunnels,
Where green moss oozes from the pores.
Dull echoes from the wet embankments,
Battlefield allotments. Fresh open sores.

In late night commuter madness,
Double-locked black briefcase on the floor,
Like a faithful dog with master,
Sleeping in the draught beside the carriage door.
To each Journeyman his own home-coming,
Cold supper nearing with each station stop,
Frosty flakes on empty platforms,
Fireside slippers waiting. Flip. Flop.

Journeyman night-tripping on the late fantasic,
Too late to stop for tea at Gerard's Cross,
And hear the soft shoes on the footbridge shuffle,
As the wheels turn biting on the midnight frost.
On the late commuter special,
Carriage lights that flicker, fade and die,
Howling into hollow blackness,
Dusky diesel shudders in full cry.
Down redundant morning papers,
Abandon crosswords with a cough,
Stationmaster in his wisdom,
Told the guard to turn the heating off.

I chase your every footstep,
And I follow every whim.
When you call the tune I'm ready,
To strike up the battle hymn.

My lady of the meadows,
My comber of the beach,
You've thrown the stick for your dog's trick,
But it's floating out of reach.

The long road is a rainbow and the pot of gold lies there.
So slip the chain and I'm off again,
You'll find me everywhere.
I'm a Rover.

As the robin craves the summer,
To hide his smock of red,
I need the pillow of your hair,
In which to hide my head.

I'm simple in my sadness,
Resourceful in remorse.
Then I'm down straining at the lead,
Holding on a windward course.

Strip me from the bundle,
Of balloons at every fair:
Colourful and carefree,
Designed to make you stare.

But I'm lost and I'm losing,
The thread that holds me down.
And I'm up hot and rising
In the lights of every town.

Smile your little smile - take some tea with me awhile.
Brush away that black cloud from your shoulder.
Twitch your whiskers. Feel that you're really real.
Another tea-time - another day older.

Puff warm breath on your tiny hands.
You wish you were a man,
Who every day can turn another page.
Behind your glass you sit and look
At my ever-open book,
One brown mouse sitting in a cage.

Do you wonder if I really care for you,
Am I just the company you keep,
Which one of us exercises on the old treadmill,
Who hides his head, pretending to sleep?

Smile your little smile - take some tea with me awhile.
And every day we'll turn another page.
Behind our glass we'll sit and look,
At our ever-open book,
One brown mouse sitting in a cage.

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust,
An October's day, towards evening,
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough,
Salt on a deep chest seasoning,
Last of the line at an honest day's toil,
Turning the deep sod under,
Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone,
Flies at the nostrils plunder.

The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie,
With the Shire on his feathers floating,
Hauling soft timber into the dusk,
To bed on a warm straw coating.

Heavy Horses, move the land under me,
Behind the plough gliding - slipping and sliding free,
Now you're down to the few,
And there's no work to do,
The tractor's on its way.

Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed,
To keep the old line going.
And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood,
Behind the young trees growing,
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
And your eighteen hands at the shoulder,
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry,
And the nights are seen to draw colder.
They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power,
Your noble grace and your bearing,
And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls,
In the wake of the deep plough, sharing.

Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill,
Up into the cold wind facing.
In stiff battle harness, chained to the world,
Against the low sun racing.
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood,
A rein of polished leather,
A Heavy Horse and a tumbling sky,
Brewing heavy weather.

Bring a song for the evening,
Clean brass to flash the dawn,
Across these acres glistening,
Like dew on a carpet lawn,
In these dark towns folk lie sleeping,
As the heavy horses thunder by,
To wake the dying city,
With the living horseman's cry.
At once the old hands quicken,
Bring pick and wisp and curry comb,
Thrill to the sound of all,
The heavy horses coming home.

Good morning Weathercock: How did you fare last night?
Did the cold wind bite you, did you face up to the fright,
When the leaves spin from October,
And whip around your tail?
Did you shake from the blast, did you shiver through the gale?

Give us direction; the best of goodwill,
Put us in touch with fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song,
Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.

Do you simply reflect changes in the patterns of the sky,
Or is it true to say the weather heeds the twinkle in your eye?
Do you fight the rush of winter; do you hold snowflakes at bay?
Do you lift the dawn sun from the fields and help him on his way?

Good morning Weathercock: make this day bright.
Put us in touch with your fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song.
Point the way to better days we can share with you.

The bomb's in the china, the fat's in the fire
There's no turkey left on the table
The commuters return on the six o'clock flier
There's no bale of hay for the stable

Well, the light it is failing along the green belt
As we follow the hard road signs
Semi-detached in our suburban mess
We're living in these hard times

Well, the fly's in the milk and the cat's in the stew
Another bun in the oven, oh, what to do?
We laugh and we sing and try to bring
A pound from your pocket, good day to you
Oh, these hard times

The politician sat on the wall
And prayed with the union game
Someone slapped the wrists on our deficit
Not a penny left to our name

Oh, the times are hard and the credit's lean
And they toss and they turn in sleep
And the line they take is the line they make
But it's not the line they keep

Well the fly's in the milk and the cat's in the stew
Another bun in the oven, oh, what to do?
We laugh and we sing and try to bring
A pound from your pocket, good day to you
Oh, these hard times

The cow jumped over yesterday's moon
And the lock ran away with the key
You know what you like and you like what you know
But there is no jam for tea

Well the light it is failing along the green belt
As we follow the hard road signs
Semi-detached in our suburban mess
We're living in these hard times

Well the fly's in the milk and the cat's in the stew
Another bun in the oven, oh, what to do?
We laugh and we sing and try to bring
A pound from your pocket, good day to you
Oh, these hard time

Dirty white caravans down narrow roads sailing
Vivas, Cortinas, weaving in their wake
With hot, red-faced drivers, horns' flattened fifths wailing
Putting trust in blind corners as they overtake

And it's all come willing now
Spend a shilling now
Stack up the back of your new motor-car
There's home-dyed woolens
And wee plastic Cuillins
The day of the Broadford Bazaar

Out of the north, no oil-rigs are drifting
And jobs for the many are down to the few
Blue-bottle choppers, they visit no longer
Like flies to the jam pots, they were just passing through

And it's all come willing now
Spend a shilling now
Stack up the back of your new motor-car
Where once stood oil-rigs so phallic
There's only swear-words in Gaelic
To say at the Broadford bazaar

All kinds of people come down for the opening
Crofters and cottar's, white settlers galore
And up on the hill, there's an old sheep that's dying
But it had two new lambs born just a fortnight before

And it's all come willing now
Spend a shilling now
Stack up the back of your new motor-car
We'll take pounds, francs and dollars from the well-heeled
And stamps from the Green Shield
The day of the Broadford Bazaa