Sunday, November 18, 2018


you’ve reached sixty

your move, cancer    

 click to enlarge 

digs out

the leaf pit

to the depth of

several autumns

cuts a foothold

to get out


washes hands in

the glossy darkness

of the rain barrel


no doubt she thinks you finicky

but her imprecision

with requests & instructions

drives you crazy


waiting for the bus home

you watch a leaf

bump against your boot


starts to get anxious

that our 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

[waiting for results of CT scan]

after the poets

have wafted past

you start

shoving autumn

into sacks


a decent likeness:

my reflection in

the gallery window


tick boxes

with coffee but

without pen


not recognising the witches

because it was dark

(and they were witches)


not birdsong but the squeak of a barrow’s wheel


like a robin, a lost word reappears and is gone again


and suddenly you are someone from the flatlands

staring at peaks


opens curtains

wipes condensation from the window

finds it’s misty outside