Now crunching wheels grind the concrete
Metal bones groan
The blasting surge of the Thames
Heard in silence.
And he, pausing,
an old man now
(by the standards of these things),
Stops and breathes.
He holds, not proudly,
The board he once rode.
One of many; a few shattered
And spilled him aslant on the slopes.
He is a phrase-book
Brought through time
To translate the thoughts of those
He knew here.
Continue reading A South Bank Story.
What, this came out as poetry? Clearly some sort of mistake.
Continue reading Meet me here.
First poetry in over a year. For the weekly Whimword challenge…
Continue reading Winding Widdershins
January first, cold and hard. January is a killer, his sin is neglect; set to face the new year, pining for the old, he never looks down at those he freezes.
Continue reading The Months – A Bestiary
It’s National Poetry Day, for once it’s the actual day for this country so I’m not just using another nation’s day as an excuse. I wasn’t intending to write a poem, but this almost came out spontaneously as a response to an email, so I thought I’d better scrub it, put it here and reply more sensibly. I’m not saying this is the definitive guide to child-rearing, incidentally. Just a facet of how I see it.
Continue reading Away, To Me.
Drown me in this awful boredom
Stretch my skin across my desk
Let it dry to leather
Over rubbed-blank keyboard sweat
Continue reading Ritual Sacrifice
He is a window, in protest
Continue reading A Moment in a Riot