Hope

On bikes flowing freely
down Royal College Street.
St Pancras Old Church.
Flashing forwards.
A frequent passing.
Once there were arches:
The American Car Wash.
A carpenter selling
small furniture.
All buried beneath
high speed rail.
But Hope can be found
on Midland Road.
Spelt out large,
nearly fifty feet high.
A sibling to those
at Gospel Oak,
York Way and
Kentish Town Road.
Graffiti soaring.
spreading balm
to all the abandoned.
The souls who travel
by day and by night.


Unrhymed

In an altogether day,
like yesterday.
Quite profound.
An ultrasound away.
Trying for a rhyme.
Please reserve that
couplet for the dead,
and the undead.
Licking the corners
of some uncommon
type of ground.
Kind would be a
better word.
But sometimes we
need a substitute.
Something that floats
gently on the wind.
A thing of lightness.
Unencumbered
by contrivance.
Steady and unrhymed.


Breakup

She’s had a lot
of painful breakups.
And I’m just here
the unwelcome guest.
Telling nothing new.
Nobody’s fighting.
Nobody knows
what to say.
I remember the
taxi ride down
Park Lane.
The song playing
on the radio.
It’s so over now,
was the message.
A portal to a
trance state.
Opening that box
from under the stairs.
The things that
were hers.
And the rain.
I hear it outside.
The constant flow.
The things we don’t
want to know.


Glowing

They do it you know.
The crazies.
The out of this world.
The oyster people.
Sitting it out,
on some long song.
I appreciate,
that shadow throw.
I feel it now.
On this long vacation.
I accept how we are.
Manifest.
As small rows of
microorganisms sway.
Glowing green
like algae.


A Fingertip Away

When you go away.
The earth disturbed,
will return to a flat
patch of grass.
In that corner,
rarely visited.
And the seasons,
such as this one.
Will follow one
after another.
Making not a dent
in the days you
spend quietly there.
Instead a remembrance
will persist in places
where you were indeed –
A living and breathing,
presence.
Just a fingertip away.


Greenberry Street NW8

On Greenberry Street
the light shines through
mansion block windows.
The dark falls discretely
in random corners.
Echoes of past times
mark their presence,
with a lingering odour.
And there’s never an end
to people who trail past.
Taking in a name,
but nothing else.
Just Greenberry Street.
Remembered in motion.


Valentines Day, 2014

Cold Camden Town,
basement kitchen.
Breath freezing.
Steam rising,
from a coffee cup.

I climb the stairs
of my broken-down house.
Hair disheveled.
Face unshaven.
Legs stiff and unyielding.

The heater has taken
that chill from my room.
Plastic window covering,
crinkles.
Cars move outside.

I place a twelve inch
on the turntable.
Forget Me Nots,
by Patrice Rushen.
It’s for you.