Below blae whirs
of imminent rainfall
two not-too-distant
butts of voices
…/
She has our crushed boxes
of wedding pictures
and our Christmas decorations –
our cheap jewels brought out
on a shortened day –
a day requiring a ladder
…/
I am not blood-steamed
by spine loosening grunts
across bare white backs
laid out below Istanbul
on arse-warmed marble
…. /
You can walk with me
along another path
It’s not too far
but be aware of fallen trees
…/
Two crows in black robes
ghost into my untrusting
edge of sight –
that miscalculated corner
of slights – of misinformation
…/
It is impossible to maintain
a constant perspective
Heraclitus often reflected
between wept moments… /
Just south of Nash Street
lies an eye-straight road –
not laid by bent-to Romans
or rutted under lost pilgrims’ carts
…/
Scores of lady’s gloves reach
out on this chain sawn patch
whilst less urgent saplings
have slower ambitions
…/
I am to return
to my adopted small-town
of mischievous lies –
laid out unmarked –
landmines left for me
to put my weight upon… /
A crop of prime turf
is to my back
My thin brick perch digs in
to my lowered leg aches
after a blind walk from Ripe’s
church across three fields –
now sat stiffly in Chalvington
…/