When I was young, nobody ran, unless, behind them on a dark and lonely road, they felt the breath of some misshapen thing, the aspens quivered and the willows wept; or if they’d spent their bus fare on warm beer, and they were overdue where duty called. Accoutred armies hurtle through our parks and boulevards,
Leaving a bedsit’s fickle gasfire flame, You make it to the corner shop that’s seen Far better days than his fluorescent name, But then his moon-white face appears between The shelves and high glass counters, lush with rows Of Swiss liqueurs, dragées and cigarettes And hangs there patiently as if he knows The types that
There’s a magical muddle that clings to the pagelike mist to a meadow. No help in the hurting, no truth in the light,just haze on the harvest. I’ve cancelled my comeback and chosen insteadto be cloistered in clover. In the blare of the body the spirit lies mutelike a book in a bottle. I’ll hunker
The world, the young woman said, is ruled by old men with hard, brutal faces and an ugly lust for power. Nothing that gym bars or strictures of the personal physician can offer will help them in the end when the dark fog drops to cover the formerly sentient mind, its edicts like arrows that
Wild sea and sky uproot your rest. The coast in its uproarious gloom, with what few trees there are distressed, your kids excited in their room – your world and weather are at war, which scares me, as I know that you’re attracted by the storm. Though happy, you’ve a feeling that being more
1950s I Black as newsprint and round as bowler hats Tall chimneys puff away like cigarettes, Away, away… until the time that lets Them crumble or replaced by council flats. But smoke still tumbles from some chimney tops, A television set glows in a dark Room lit by coal. How long will time let park
Inside us is a dark room where our shame gets tired of waiting. At first we don’t admit it’s there, we don’t do introspection. The trouble starts with dating: so many men prioritise some quirky predilection, some body shape or size. My own turn-on, I hesitate to say, is
The house lights dim again: Willy Loman, Vanya, Lear talk to the dark before their eyes – while you glance sideways at your neighbours, who’ve brought their lovers, husbands, wives to sit beside them (or to occupy their minds). What do they want to see? The play goes on, into its last deciding act. A
It’s too late now to say you are not old, the years gang up on you, they settle down like locusts falling on a field of grain, the rustling noise you hear, that is their sound. How to be old: I’ll help you on the way. Stand straight. Be calm. Pretend you are a tree
World’s stock of afternoons is running short And summer’s light is turning golden brown – It’s time to summon up our winter thoughts Since poetry will always be our sport And images, once mothered, won’t disown Our afternoons, though old, though running short, For in mind’s shadows metaphors hold court And new dreams swarm. We
You go here and go there, but also stand still, return to the same spots: the bench on the hill in Victoria Park, above the plane trees that veil through winter branches the city’s spill, platform seven, same-time Tuesdays, Temple Meads gloomy and Cardiff central gleeful in sun, a table in the café waits, routinely
I give you permission to be grumpy on your birthday. Quibbles, Tussles… escalating to full-scale plate-smashing Rows are allowed. Hypochondria, Melancholia, Cattiness, Swipes, Barbs, Pollution Anxiety — all shall be smiled upon. Not literally. There will be a window at noon for a forty-five minute Tirade on Money Worries. Longer, if necessary. Don’t hold back.
we’re outside The Apple Pie, sheltering. A jackdaw hops on a table nearby, twitching its hooded head, chit-chattering urgent news. Fixing us with beaded eyes, its charcoal plumage paints the rain-rod day. You message Steve, his house still full of Kath. Step-dad or Lydia? Who’s come to stay? Someone’s there, we hope, to ease the
Take a walk with me down to the stream. It’s a cold, clear day. Frost underfoot. Tonight there will be stars: approaching home, we’ll crane our necks to count them, while billions of years whoosh past and next-door’s cat creeps over the shed. For now, it’s the stream we’re seeing through: billions of drops absolved
I was considerably perplexed for a long timeas to how they ensured each can contained a uniform amount. And what was the measurement?Gigglebytes? Guffaws? Microsnorts? I assumed there was a warehouse or depotin HaHa-on-the-Hill or Chucklington or some peripheral spot: HowlMart! orLarfs-R-Us! in dayglo on the side, but worried about the clowns who manned itbeing
Beyond strange, to find myself in this roomful of ghosts! Or whatever’s left when the person’s gone. Where was I when they all slipped out? In life we shared so much, meals, beds, and life was great, Thanks! It really was. Now I don’t know my hosts, Let alone my fellow-guests… But here’s Someone looking
They Oz you up, your Mandyias. They may not mean to, but they do. They give you vast and trunkless legs A sunken shattered visage too. But they were Ozzed up in their turn By Mandyias upon the sand Who half the time had wrinkled lips And half in sneering cold command. Oz hands on
He left pawprints in the corridors. Attendants followed at a distance, collecting his droppings and listening for pronouncements. When they saw his tongue lolling, they knew he was thirsty, pressing forward with a pail. Some nights, hectored by matters of the state, they would hear him roar in his chambers, beat his paws against the
On a winter’s day, we took a trip to Wrabness. I was forcibly struck by Wrabness’s drabness. An empty street, as if everyone was ill. The air was preternaturally still. There was a single closed and shuttered shop. No birds sang. It wasn’t Adlestrop. Down at the estuary, the water was slate-grey, the sand and
Strange how the wind in certain placesbecomes your mindand your mind the sea.Shifting with degrees of perspicacity. Strange how the pines in certain placesbecome the fretand the fret the breeze.Tidal. Sputtering with incivilities. Strange how your bones in certain placesbecome the stones that make freeto stand. Or fall.Or to mutiny.