Monthly Archives: April 2013

The Workers

There are men in rooms, sharpened

by white-wet light which cut right through

the inch-thick residue

piled on glass. Windows –

a constant here – magnifying whatever was left

of the outside, the other place. Such men!

Jaundiced, slow

prodding small seeds in row on row

of cat-black soil –

fertilised by those who know

their compounds, their futures, or just

how the shoots can grow and bend toward

a sun that may

or may not thrust itself from dawn to night.

Chariots. A great bird. Ball of gas.

They sit, and gaze

and hour on hour they push and test

the cracking husk. A blade, a new life

races upwards.

Now broken free, it’s quickly splinted

strapped up, gartered, forced to stand.

They gender, sex, they splice and list,

pen tips wet lips

and stems are bound,

crutches employed.

the blossom is sketched, breath is held,

leaves cover shame, and shame is shown

clearly. Slowly. Daily.

It is hot in here

and so very, very quiet.

They say the men are old.

A Walk

An oily sun

turns on England, see

rolling icons:

the slick stuff of old photos in


a shade of green that still

seems somewhat unlikely.

Pylons lurch from groaning gaps

where rust and soil collide


blowing inwards a

childhood terror, egged on

by public service broadcasts –

a boy once died


alongside greasy signs, all

Danger Of Death

and yellowed reminders that

our trespasses will be prosecuted,



Out here, no good mornings,

no forelocks tugged.

Just wet stones, slowly turning.


Yet still cars pass,

out for Sundays strapped in.


A corner was taken at speed.

Birds slice up the skies.

The Holidays

They are divided at stations,

little more than numbers –


while axles pause and lips

yearn for lips


children running

into another’s arms and


breaking the mothers

left, wondering,


if all the days

watching cracks and splits


as seeds burst forth, and

emerge from stone


in pliable, sonorous forms

not even gazing backwards


were worth it