Sunday, November 18, 2018


you’ve reached sixty

tap the game clock

your move, cancer


digs out the leaf pit to

the depth of several autumns

cuts a foothold to get out


afterwards washes hands

in the cold glossy darkness

of the rain barrel


no doubt she thinks you finicky

but her imprecision with requests and

instructions drives you crazy


waiting for the bus home

you watch a leaf

bump against your boot


you start to get anxious

that your house is just a home

and not ‘a curated space’


she asks the museum guide, ‘what’s the lemon about ?’


Friday, November 09, 2018

storm clouds

you’ll look the ogre

in the eye

[before finding out results of CT scan]

after the poets have wafted past you’ll start shoving autumn into sacks


a decent likeness:

your reflection in

the gallery window


goes through a tick box questionnaire with coffee but without a pen

not recognising

the witches


it was dark and

they were witches


thinks it unfamiliar birdsong but it’s just the squeak of a barrow’s wheel