Returning as ever to sender


Poetry is the sound the soul makes

as it exits your being

Our lives are turned around and around

like whispers in the alphabet

We are the random strokes

of a larger love

that seeks and lingers

and crashes on a distant shore

feeling always for entirety

whilst clinging to the roots

So yes, we are small, yet

we glimpse it all.

Waste Away


The bin men parade down our street

all purpose and speed.

Rolling before them a thunder of work.

Of bins and trays and discarded things

their noise punctuating this slow morning.

And every week the clock-work of waste,

of renewal through removal

by these early day storm troopers

advances and moves to another front.

Still fast and hot. Dull-eyed but

eager to finish an infinite job

and park their oozing lorries

out of sight

lest the war be lost.

And when they’ve gone the gimlet eyed residents

let in the clean and calm,

scuttling out to retrieve their empties

and return to an order

only they can comprehend

as they claim peace

in the recently returned

status quo.