the wind across wide-open skies
reveals itself only in the nudging of clouds
the tousling of an unkempt field
or by sketching shapes
on an otherwise lazy river.
today it starts downstream
and brings me gifts, unasked for:
steam off my tea;
a lone duck’s quack;
tiny leaves, spinning like ice dancers
or a jumper, sans parachute,
spiralling Earthwards.
debris covers the streets,
as if the autumn moon had shot off silent fireworks,
and not swept up.
it could’ve been any other seat
in any other carriage
on any other line
but I didn’t know that when I sat down.
through underground grime
and blackened newspapers
came quickfire mental pictures
of the ends of long summer days
on the wasteland behind the old garage
of old Mr Smith, a silhouette shepherd
a father, at least to the fire
to which we floated like moths.
as the book in my lap lay open
so too lay the box of memories, strewn,
turning words into smoke and carrying them
up, into my nose as I breathed deep my childhood.
now, you’d say smoke is smoke
but smoke is never just smoke
smoke is wood or weed
or snuffed candles
or anything else gone out
or burned up
none of it without fire
and none of that without a spark
and who then lit the stars?
and which idiot sent them spinning off into space like that
for humans to wander under and wonder over
and shoot up their own little surrogate stars
off crackling autumn branches
and dry-wood pallets
and anything else going out
or burning up
like I guess, we all will
and one day there was no fire
to dance around and
Mr Smith didn’t come out to light the stars
and they built flats on the wasteland
and the next station is Archway
and I’m getting off like I’m waking up
from a dream I’m not ready to leave
but I guess what’s gone is gone
and the train is gone
and the smell is gone
and Mr Smith is gone
and I’m...well, I’m still here.
pulp all the papers
then unplug the damn TV,
it's the only way you'll make new year
with any sanity.
ripple
trickle
feather
wrinkle
the
be all
and
end all
of
to be
or not to be
ripple
shimmer
paddle
figure
wave
borrow
give
wallow
lap
and overlap
merge
and disappear
though one is one
and one is the other
each separately are neither.
they seem happy that way.
bob
tuck
slosh
duck.
The crane
hung in the sky,
as if someone had gone up
to finish painting the moon.
eight ungainly waders
line the mud on the Thames;
dip, sip, peck, rise up,
raising life out of dirt.
built just this morning,
their single-strand legs
plucked from a haystack,
their inkpen beaks
dipped once, twice,
then raised to the heavens
to colour the sky.
When the storm cracked wide open
and the rain broke from the sky
dark figures lined window panes
as the street watched it fall.
glittering in the lamplight glow
pattering on the parched pavement
it awakened that dry-leaf odour from the soil
while all the while above
the clouds waged angry war with the sky.
tendrils pick at my consciousness
sleep beckons
a roaring sea to drag me under
whirlpools suck and crash spray
yet to bed down now
is to give up hope on the moon’s ticket – so,
battle your better nature for better art
guide the pen on its inky trail
but the angels’ choir is audible.
and sleep beckons
beckons.
I caught the smell of the river today
nigh on lost in the big smoke of the city –
like birdsong over a motorway's roar.
the sun is at my window
as you were,
there but never mine.
I watch men at work
against endless blue heaven
perched high up on a steeple.
and I wonder how it is
that God's own home,
needs upkeep from these people.
if I shut my eyes,
this water sounds like the sea
and I could be at the beach,
building sandcastles
and jumping waves -
instead of sitting here,
watching the river
sloshing its banks,
hoping you'll call.
London
from my window
ahead, the giant sleeps
a promise fresh upon the breeze
daybreak.
London
lunch in the park
young romance fills the air
the sun warms moods as Big Ben chimes
midday.
London
streetfuls of life
lights twinkling, neon glows
pints are pulled, ice chinks in glasses
nightfall.
Endless
the splendid halls
from sculptures to Vermeer.
I stroll amongst this history,
barefoot.
Summer
along the Seine
musical magicians.
Wine in hand, I sit and drink in
the dusk.
Pinpricks
lie sprawled ahead
like a quilt made of stars
from the Sacré Cœur I behold
Paris.
Oh poor abandoned house,
how sadly the afternoon sun strokes your ivy-bearded face
How dejected your once proud roof,
now the slates have slipped and lie shattered like dreams on the ground
How wistful your dense front yard
the plants bowed and motionless as mourners at your funeral
Weeds poke from your gutters,
sad lashes on eyes that will never again see
Your windows gone, the wind howls
like a lost child at your rugged bones
The sky blue peels from your front door;
sharp flakes litter the porch like confetti from a party that moved on years ago
A hundred childhoods watched over, kept safe within your sturdy arms
and this is how they repay you?
You who have tasted so many summers and listened to so much laughter
now stand vacant, unloved, forlorn.
i see no faces,
just shadows
flitting over the buildings opposite.
who they are
remains a mystery
and they are oblivious to my very existence
though united by a moment in time -
a mere coincidence of dimensions
their purpose here unknown
no details of their lives betrayed
they could be anyone for the difference it would make
they are anyone yet they are everyone to me.
for I have seen the whole of humanity flitting over the buildings opposite.
