Capsules. For poem

Overhead the behemoths drone in and out

of personal spaces.

My wife returns to our enfolded warmth.

The rumble-in and then a roasting thunder

quickly passes into someone else’s quiet ownership

to leave a vague memory

of a clamour

like a lament that hasn’t reached fulfilment

or a desire left hanging, forlorn.

Out there in measured air the passengers

on a finger of flame jealously regard

their own tight goals, blind to me

wrapped in linen and sheltering from the light.

But at times the ragged space just moans

in a grumpy thunder that recedes into a whining howl

like an in-law with a curse.

Yet at other times these flying shipments

glide by in a murmur rubbing shoulders

with hopes and dreams.

So I imagine they go in peace.

A film on The Green

Night visions

Night visions


What does the night evoke?

A placid moon

Raptures on The Green

When atmosphere surrounds the scene

And this man made detail

With sounds and vision

Is a shared spectacle

Gathering a charm under stars

To do outside in the elements

What we mostly do in theatres

Where the mind is cocooned

And comfort comes with a ticket

But here they go Al Fresco

And the better for it

Because community breeds peace

So we may all return

When the vision has been packed away

Grass remains

A communal space to play

Casual thoughts and foot-prints

On familiar soil


DawnThe man who visits

A passing man

Who takes up a place

In a foreign space

And interjects with wisdom

He is conscience

A traveller with changing tales

Who fills spaces

In minds that are voids

And goes away chanting

Rumours of imagined things

That churn in the sleeping brain

And make little sense

Except that we carry his parcels

Through the day and into the dark

Inhabiting those spaces and places

That have been touched by druids

And other make-shift heroes

Flitting with their magic

And charms, restored from another world

To re-kindle slumbering guilt

From secrets half buried, half remembered

A litter of false ornaments


I am left in confusion again

At daybreak when hope should reign

Night Bus

Night. Bus. London. Scene

Journey home on the night bus

That old lady yesterday in rags
Has made me pause. A thought
persists in me that I should care
That the residue of my compassion
The memory of displaced dust
Should be so ruffled
I desire to make amends
this new day begins in comfort
And my plans do not permit
Strangers to invade that domain
So, bathed in clean, bright light
The cleansing winter cold
Is a promise. A route to play
And I embrace that
Somewhere between Green Park
and Hammersmith Broadway
I imagine she lingers still
In the dust and the smell
Of the lost and foundering
And I am