Category Archives: Poetry


Two weeks have gone,
and nothing much
has happened.
The general mood
is bemusement.
A stoic resignation.
Winter refuses to go.
And all that chitta chatta,
it deadens the mind.
Takes discourse to
a new low.
God help everyone,
including those who
talk of appeasement.
Because they like us
are sleepwalking
on the way to ruin.

Nice and Tidy

I like it nice and tidy.
The kitchen separate
from the lounge.
A sea view.
And some shops.
A garden at the back.
A place to bury –
the bodies.
To keep it all nice,
nice and tidy.

The Boiler

The comfort of cold air.
Small drops of nothingness.
Collecting coal from outside,
in a scuttle made
of zinc and tin.
The end is bent
from numerous pressings-
A black ragged mouth,
that gently spews.
Over old newspapers and wood.
Creating a halo of black.
Shut the door,
and let the furnace grow.
Heat blessed heat.
Roaring inside a metal tomb.
No on or off, no thermostat.
Just uncontrollable flame.
Converting cold air into warm.


Upstairs on the bus
smells of swimming.
All wet hair and chlorine.
It’s cold outside.
Condensation is building.
A woman in green says:
Christmas tree dumped,
baubles n’ all.
In a moment we will
round the Cape Horn.
Slip down the sails,
in a stop-start progression.
Leaving behind those
mid-morning dippers.
Evaporating all the way
to Bayham Street
and beyond.

Christmas Past

There are tiles on the
hallway floor, drying.
A plank of wood
stretches from bottom stair
to front room.
We negotiate the abyss
before getting a present.
Everything else is lost
or forgotten.
Only this fragment remains.

Shepherd dress fashioned
from an old sheet and tea towel.
A ballroom dancing girl.
A bun in her hair.
Lily the pink.
Simon says.
Waltzing round a school hall.
Everything else is lost
or forgotten.
Only this fragment remains.

Two desks stand side by side,
in the sitting room.
A Meccano set,
with electric motor
is spread about the floor.
The kitchen is engulfed,
by steam and cooking smells.
Everything else is lost
or forgotten.
Only this fragment remains.

Snow on the ground.
Snow everywhere.
Delivering post in a greatcoat,
falling asleep at Aunty Nells.
A Hard Days Night
spins on the stereo.
Marys Boy Child is number one.
Everything else is lost
or forgotten.
Only this fragment remains.

Christmas Eve

A mellow fruitfulness.
A raucous ride.
A Victoria Line.
A Central Line
A Northern Line.
A 134 stuffed-full.
A mushroom wellington.
A glass of beer.
A vegan cream liquor.
A gift exchanged.
A slow spiral to –
A bed warm and ready.


An encounter one winter long ago.

Django played in the tunnels beneath Bank Station.
He fashioned a twisted scale,
that drifted on the air.
And he made me think of Morocco,
and the sweet fragrant smell of Marrakech.

Django: all awkward and angular,
with a mop of thick blond hair.
Had large bony fingers,
that made  me think of Christ’s,
bending round the cross.

Django hummed as he played.
More moan than tune.
It sounded raw and real, and how he could feel the music.
And he made me think of the Mississippi delta,
and the wide expanse of river rolling along.

Django spoke silently to me,
and I to him.
We acknowledged each other,
as familiar strangers do.
With a nod of our heads.

One Christmas.
He wore a velvet hat Trimmed with ermine fur,
and an Arabian cloak to keep out the cold.
And I though of Gold, Incense, Frankincense and myrrh.
And things like joy and goodwill to all like Django.

Django was the name,
sent telepathically to me.
And I thought of Django Reinhardt,
and his paralysed fingers,
and of those who are not as fortunate as he.

Django busked during the winter of 1984,
while miners struck and the GLC crumbled.
And the memory of him, brings into focus,
this current hard winter,
and how warm it is underground.