Cutting Out

I step out to an evening’s aura
to West Park’s dark-cut recovery

of trim lawn-strimmed flora
now sliced to a fragrant enquiry

and I reply to a text’s posit:
Have they helped you..
to a conclusion?
Which my stepdaughter
kneads and beats
in a knuckled-down confusion

I give her my finite answer
(as I do to each upset offspring)
I need to move out.. to be kind to..
but each one keeps on asking..

Then I thrashed my clicked walking stick
amongst the white-sat flowers
and then I cracked it on the red bricks
of this house of sucked-off hours

The Dark Room

They appeared on my phone
in a series of texts

those photos of photos
you unearthed in a drawer
of our kids fifteen years before
we announced this ending

I wanted to steal those times
which chemistry had made
in the development of them
into glossy
but now cracking captures

My childhood remains
in one school photograph
alongside my brothers
one dead
one not talking

And in one other print I keep
of my father
holding me upright on a pony

His hand (for once) holding on to me

Box Set

We are drunk-slumped
drugged by red wine
and the wide screen
into the L-shaped sofa

that and the sequential playback
of episodes long ago watched

It is a life now rewound
made so unstoppable
by a misplaced remote

Time no longer exists
for us
the once-tuned
to watersheds and news
played only on the hour

We don’t pace ourselves
with the TV breaks

Instead it’s consumed
in bibulous retakes

The House my Father Built

I am still weighted by the dream
of a house being built
by my long-dead father

it wasn’t him but some stand-in

and details in the windows
where colour was etched to capture
the hills and homes of deer
so that the past could be lined up
with the correct view and angle

a small leak in the high roof
and paint trod into carpet
and timber cutting dust remained

and an improbable kitchen
which we mentioned lightly
and was likened to a shooting range

he had been a good shot

God off-road

We three boys
would trawl boggy fields

well up to welly boot depths
and over

to heel and toe squelch home
from draining ditches
of dark unknowns

never measured before
by mankind

those unlit sinkholes
of fervent imaginations

each fed by slowed streams
of red Martian water

that oxide bleeding

so bloody it could be
the earth rusting inside

too much for life

and from that ditch
I lifted a fossil leaf

a tyre track of time
embedded into rock

as if left by God on a bike.