Signs

 

 

Brighton Steps Collage-1

 

Walk. Don’t walk

Street furniture

The architecture of survival

I am surrounded

Guided even, if I care to look

But what is this?

A shifting arcade?

I travel in the line of beauty

Unaware that each stride

May or may not make sense

For my influence is limited

I am simply here

No podium place

No winners’ medal

Just ephemeral distance

A few aches and wrinkles

Survivors’ lines

Where passing traffic

Abraded me

Friction. That is life

And when the sign next lights

With a kind of throbbing urgency

I might even smile

Not yet safe. Not yet spent

On a watching brief

For eyes

Alert to clues

 

Dawn

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