At least there’s someone with me, in the croft.

At last there’s absent movement, keeps me wanted,

Alone: and whether we are truly lost

Or not, her abject ruin keeps me haunted.




They kept a world for us: look, here it is,

With cocktail bars kicking-out, bare bulbs, exposed

Brickwork. Steel surfaces, now wiped down.

The town was built for our disasters.

They peppered the streets with signs of former

Passers-by, streetlights closing their red eyes

This morning-after, blinking out our night.

Fine jewellers open up, white crystalline,

Advertising the hope of perfect theft.

They lined the walls with posters, pasted down,

Peeled lovingly over time for pale

Authenticity, begging us to attend

A band who filed for bankruptcy, years ago.

By the looks of things, it must have been quite the show.

All the while, you stagger like a villain,

Your pockets jangle the change of tenners

Ripped apart for booze and petty cash.

Sharp as a blade, though artlessly held,

You swing like vengeance round a traffic light

And observe the world they left for us: here it is.

They left it for us.





People watching


I cannot be persuaded that time is linear.

This afternoon, I saw Dale and Laura ordering

Soya lattes in a local place: only to find

That they were another, innocent pair, Dale

And Laura having died in another city

Unknown years before. There is a pattern for these,

For the Dales of life to encounter their Laura

In tucked-away coffee places, ordering

Obtusely-milked drinks, blissfully; while I,

Onlooking, tea leaves stuck between my teeth,

In circles and forever, watch them die.



My Evening’s Love



The boy upsets the surface. Once sublime,

The wrinkles sift: in drifts, his vision wades.

They say those waters ripple out, in time.

But beauty is forever. It’s life that fades.


A sky-blue blinks before him. To his eye,

It sees itself a thousand shifting shades.

One day those hues will widen to a grey.

But eyes can see forever. It’s light that fades.


Though dark draws in, and dunnocks hear the call,

An evensong that every heart persuades,

In night I’ll hold you, whilst the dark takes all.

For beauty is forever. It’s light that fades.



For Adam Rinder: Garden of the Heart

A plucked rose, in his redness, never weeps.

To pick him is to praise him, in his prime,

Before in petalled tiredness he sleeps.

The fiercest bloom grows sultry in his time.

Can once-uprooted passions be replanted? 

A severed stem will pick itself apart:

But can the pricks and briars be surmounted, 

To cultivate the garden of a heart?

Take friendship, flames like roses, from the vine;

And earth them in the garden of the heart.