February 25, 2016

Past the garden gate

The jagged silhouette of a pipe

Puffs soft chugs of steam

That curl like the smoke

From a trembling cigarette

And settle on the milkman's crate

The house is cold-quiet

Lest for the toe-tip patter

Of Grandma

Up with the dawn

For she's hardly caught a wink

Drawing water for the kettle

From the grumbling sink

Morning breaks over us

In tufts and shafts

Of wool and light

Rolling, reaching, rousing

Grandma waits patiently

To be seen

The only woman for which she is now known

And stares hard through the window at a blackbird

(Broadway Market) There's something about weekday London. It's quiet. And there's always a seat in the cafes. Not ...

Last night I dreamt that you and I were swept away on a silent, deaf tide. You, stricken, lit by the moon. I, in darkness, unheard...

Your morning memory blooms in a huff of tea-steam; soft, distorted and, rising, gone. The touch of sun...

The sky over the park is framed by naked trees standing stark to attention, upturned, as if a black network of nerves has taken root...