Adrian Green

Mirror

There are no lies In the morning No cheating of age An illusion of eye Smoothing skin over bone. No portrait hidden away Becoming skeletal And demanding release. Another day to face, My confessor,

Pink Champagne (for Digby Fairweather)

Not blues in twelve But there is joy And pink champagne, The maker’s music Trading eights In syncopated synergy From Dixieland to Rock ‘n’ Roll, And here the cornet-master Leads in tones A trumpet

Drifting on a tide from long ago, They swing at anchor silently Wreathed in early morning mist, Like ghosts grown mellow with antiquity. With names like Gladys, Will and Edith May Heroic legends motionless

Luna Lake Haiku

New moon on the lake. Your voice and the nightingale Serenade springtime. Full moon on the lake. Your voice and the waterbirds Celebrate summer. Old moon on the lake. Owls hunting autumnal food –

String Bass

Some like to dominate, Others caress A voluptuous rhythm On pliant strings. This pulse drives life Through wanton counterpoint, The heart and harmony Of things.

The Tenor Man

Pottering around the stage, A hyperactive ancient in his own backyard – Independent of the band it seems. Disrhythmic shuffling of ashtray, Beer, a pack of cigarettes, Adjusting microphones, Then in the middle eight

Walking on the Estuary Hill

The curlew and the heron call, The hissing mud and whispering wings Beat eery through the idle air Until the moonlit midnight silence falls And then the tide flows softly Through the gut and

Bluenote Time

in the soft jazz and midnight hour Your eyes are dancing close to mine A sway of hips, a touch of lips While on the stand Piano player’s fingers Dance around the tune Above