I had this, in my head, it was running, flying like a kite but I forgot to attach the string and by the time I wrote it down the tail had fluttered through my fingers and this was all I had. What could have been..
Red trades in thought
In colour
Bought
From passing trains.
Oh, man disappointed by a Twix
You will never know hardship
Like a KitKat broken to dust
Or a Creme Egg filled
Only with sugar syrup
No yolk.
Oh, man disappointed by a Twix
It wasn’t your first choice
It was an impulse by the till
It was a desperate grab
You wanted something sweet
Like this.
Oh, man disappointed by a Twix
You should cede your place in the queue
And rove back into the shop
To make a better choice
Like a Cadbury’s Caramel
Or Wispa.
Oh, man disappointed by a Twix
Enjoy that biscuit and caramel
In milk chocolate enrobed
Taste it like it’s your first Twix
You may find you enjoy it
In time.
Dusk
Cools into evening
Skin still red
From stolen sun,
Cheated out of the sky,
Shivers at the open window
Reaches for heat
To shudder the cold
From the bones of the house.
Words change
Worlds
Change you, you know
That everything can be
Different, with words
Changed to suit
Moods managed
Worlds managed by
Simple marks
Curving, slashing
Pencil grey on paper.
A collection of books
A small collection
But fine
As all books are.
This is an England
And you are free
Of tyranny – rejoice!
As a hand stretched out
To grasp the tongue
Of the great cracked-iron voice.
Be silent
In your hour of freedom
Be silent, and be glad
Now just lie back
And think of an England
None of us ever had.
You can protest,
They say,
You can’t
But help be there
That day
And turn your back
On an England that
Looked the other way.
It had you not
In mind, in heart
In its grip, perhaps,
Though through it you can fall
Through gaps
In fingers opened wide
As certain structures will collapse
In holes that once were small.
So have your silence,
Hold your tongue
This moment will not
Last for long.
That’s all you have –
(False) memories
Of an England at its best.
Grip that in mind
As in her name
We sell off all the rest.
A dustbin lid
(Green, recycling)
Whips closed,
Gun-crack sharp
In restful suburbs.
A whirr of city-grouse
(Cheap, fat pigeons)
Startles up
From the long grass.
Dawn chorus
(Missing dawn by miles)
Bounces cheerfully about,
Reflecting from snug-tight
Double glazed
Bedroom windows.
Today they will be thrown open
Today spring awaits
In sunlit alleys
On blossom-specked webs
With rain-bloomed
Common-weeds radiant.
Ploughing against
The foam foment
A moment held
By the changing angle.
An anchored squeal
Dragging tracks of water
Just for that moment
Our paths cross
And you don’t notice
Me or anyone like me
As you drag down Thames
On your settled path
Through ancient,
Pathless,
Ever-change.
An ash root
blackened as a rotten gum
forms a waypoint
on his glum itinerary.
Squirming through the dirt
like nervous anticipation
pushing through the stomach.
He lies,
face down on the grass
watching ants crawl purposely
as he is listless
through the micro-jungles
of all their lives.
“Come on, boys”
He says and smiles
“Put on your dancing shoes
We’ll give her a send off
You’ll never forget.”
The silence claps about him
Like irons on his wrist
The feet shuffle in
Awkward steps
That are not dance
They wince.
Knives glint in the open
Words of steel
Words of iron
Unused yet read, poised
To cut the unwary
Who dare to open their honest
Unkind
Truth.
Today is not a day for dancing
Today is a day for veils
And blinds, still drawn at noon
And blinkers.