By Harrow Road

Against dusk’s bands of scarlet-velvet light,

a Jehovah's Witness clutches a crumpled

Book of apocalypse, and glowers

at a slammed front door.

Behind her, part in dare, part pulled by blues,

nonchalant to foretold doom, a teenage boy

walks on a wall's slender height. To the left,

a harried old man takes unsure steps

down to the chill of the GP surgery; 

and the kid stops, spotting a school girl

who sambas and sashays on toe-tips,

smiling as though it’s August Carnival,

when the air pulsates to a free jazz rhythm - 

circling, adapting, vibrant, then gone.

(Ink Sweat and Tears, March 2017)

The Art of Walking

I see you. I see your arc of arms,

speed of steps, swerve of hips

depict the measure of your impatience,

zest, your almost-happiness.

I see the Rembrandt touch within

that softly quickened breath,

the hefting of weight from heel to toe,

your honest insistence on depth.

In its subsumed skip, your walk’s

a counterpoint of passion and control;

restless, striving; even as you slow,

when you ache, when you limp.

(Iota Magazine, 2013)

Splinters of time

A Month is not what it used to be.

There’s been devaluation,

the Central Bank of Time losing control

as fraudsters with diamond clippers

trim off edges of Instants, slither

by slither in stealthy accumulation - 

callous, they’re shameless, even confronted

by unmasked hoards of Decades and Years.

And I’ve sent many pleas for action

to stem this devious work, but the police

contend they cannot do more, the council

says it’s an issue for Government.

So I’m left to defend my fortune

as best I can: cherish true Hours

stored at home, kept where I stand.

(Rialto Magazine, Winter 2010)