When all the rigours of your craft,
Make fast another's hands,
It is a lovely business to,
But watch and play the fan,

For truly in creating much,
The tastes so swift conform,
To love the sharing of a love,
And grow without forlorn.

Dancing lights at the call of a haloed moon,
The chilly overheating, the sober headache and forgetting,
The staggering humanity lining the streets like cilia,
The night grows old and festers to its silent buzz,
Why are you hidden, pied piper?
Care to share your hideous beauty with the evening air?

A poem returning to sleep,
A topic for all days...
That end in tumbles down to duvets,
And quiet contemplation in the night,
Eyes closed... or open in the dark,
All's same in this returning land,
Yet tired whispers ring like wind-chimes,
A gentle call to turn in quick,
That crashes into raucous harmony,
And then to silence urging you the same.
...

Jack's beans,
Broke by the jostling brush,
Just bursting out of beanless bog,
Breaking beyond the joyous bubbles,
That bask in jolly brightness,
Beyond, bumbling branches do bolt to jumbo Jack-eaters,
And belligerent bellows jostle the bean branches.

Works I suppose.