Thursday, 27 November 2014

The Great Escape

An office wallah jumper,
navy with red diamonds
that belong on the golf course.
Opel Rekord and Ford Sierra era horribleness.
Sensible conversations over mugs of tea
all in all making me thankful
for the great escape
that became you and I.

Wednesday, 26 November 2014


Rain drowns
summer’s tinder

sets a stage
for storms
a theatre
of thunder


carry on the ghost
of a breeze

an avenue
of trees.

Here is a path
of green
and amber
that wavers
over and
over and

until I write myself
the next corner.

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

Ghost Of Myself

Throttled half the night by a throat fever. Sweat refuses to break out, the aching remains bottled in the bones. A few days of this, hot-footing it to Covent Garden where a silver builder floats two feet clear of the ground. A natural wonder. Of course there has to be some kind of trick but no-one can see any strings as they circle round and around clicking their phones saying over and over how does he do it. A gold builder is also in on the act. He sits in mid air without moving a golden muscle. A little further on Charlie Chaplin, sorrowful white face and toothbrush moustache comes back from the dead. His over-sized boots flapping on the cobbles as he twiddles his cane in the same old game, the same old routine that still works its wonder on the technological digital audience which makes me wonder how we would have managed without it all. The answer being quite fine thank you but this comes later on the night of Halloween when earlier I had walked into the city the leaves like discarded wrappers on the pavement and a vague feeling in the bluish air with its silver lights that has the undeniable effect of making me feel younger as if a great weight has been lifted from the pressures that have been causing my face to act as if it was being stretched earthwards on invisible strings attached to invisible fish hooks. The feeling is a real one: no twist of the imagination. The feeling of the spirits being lifted on Halloween before it really gets going and all of the other ghosts come back from the dead. But for now, I’m just happy to spend some time with this ghost of myself.

Friday, 21 November 2014

6 pm

If there are brambles
snaking forbidden paths

yellow marigolds
and lost islands
in green channels

if there are misty hills


red wine
and midnight rambles

and there is
still a six o’clock -

then his face
will light
with a smile

because all good things
happen at this time.

Monday, 17 November 2014

Wandering Again

I’m wandering again wearing my old coat. Holes in my jeans.
The soft shoe shuffle.

Mist in my room. Rain on my pillow.

The green river carries ships and birds.
Leaves of red and yellow.

Hat on my head.

It takes a while to get there.

The have you done this, have you done thats until I finally let go:
travel backwards, forwards in time.

Fool that I am
for forgetting
such a simple,
complicated thing.

Tuesday, 11 November 2014

The Black Cat (Part II)

A path of silver
through the snow.

A black cat turning
in waves of dark,
rivers of light.

Reflections, refractions
of mirrors and moon beams.

An avenue of black trees
reaching for the cloudy sky.

Shall we put down these old books and follow?

Monday, 3 November 2014

The Lost Scarf

For a long time I wore a scarf knitted from the perfume of the old country:

flooded lanes
blue flowers
and rainy clouds.

After twenty summers
I lost that too.

Saturday, 1 November 2014

Riverside Dreams

For three nights in succession the mirror of sleep has been broken. 
The dreams and reflections it reveals shattered.

No reason for it
as far as I can tell.

No cats shadowing the windows,
no crow-bar burglars
prising the doors.
No ghosts creeping my stairs.
No skeletons rattling the latches
or dreams turning sour.

The moon started it but that’s all over now.

Two o’clock and I wake in blue light
to find sleep has packed her bags and gone.

I take a daily walk by the river than runs through the city park. There are some fine trees and the grass rises and falls in pleasing shapes. The path is strewn with yellow leaves. The willows and chestnuts drape the walkway and brush my shoulder, head and face.

Polished conkers lying on the path. In homage to the inner child I fill my coat pockets with them.

They are still there now wrinkling like someone who has stayed too long in the bath.

My favourite bench is the one closest to the water.

But today I can’t sit here.

An old man sits on the graffiti: head slumped as he resists or welcomes an afternoon sleep, his long white beard flowing down into his grey raincoat. Tufts of white hair on his head. The soles of his boots laugh in the breeze as a tinny voice comes out of an old transistor radio resting on the bag by his side.

A voice that lulls him into riverside dreams.

In the shards of the mirror
past and future


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