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Sunday 22 February 2015

Wakes Week

A thousand miles of photographs
Hundreds of leagues beneath the sea
A smile, from a lady in a plastic mac
On her way towards the North End pier

Blue skies, brief blown clouds, stiff breeze
Waves; high with roll, with surf, with crash
Out there where sky meets sea, a latency
A curved line of disbelief, believe me

Forecast; the wrinkles will arrive
Sprinkled with diamonds and pearls
Whirled as a dervish of old times portal
The long clock, the point of it all; social


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Saturday 21 February 2015

Silent Time

Patience, she too wears sandals
Models made and models cast aside
Hidden doors from floor to ceiling

I, there I go again, I
All the blood, in consecrated
Circulation; all of love

The patron saint of care & patience
She too wears oilskin lookalikes
Forbidden clothes, rags for reeling

You, there you go again, you
All the good in pre-perfected
Veneration; all of love

Patience, he too wears sneakers
Members rooms and members only
Hidden codes, the keys of leaving

We, there we go again, we
Misunderstood, in desecrated
Contemplation; all of love


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Friday 20 February 2015

Edmund

A taste of the world
From the black olive delicatessen
A saucerful of secrets
From the United Reform Church

Across the way a middle aged zealot
A man at least many more ways committed
Than the big issue seller stood by his side
He holds you with his near death monologue

A swan by the lake; rural-in-urban
Water lilies sent by the boy king
Whispers of breeze in the rooftop timbers
Rattled by the complicity of non-believers


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Thursday 19 February 2015

Beneath The Clock

The loud swung pendulum
Observes your minutes
Your hours, your days
Your lifetimes of reading

Otherwise silence
Except for wind & wave
Rant and rave of sailors
And fishermen's memorabilia

Tales of extraordinary confidence
You are a believer, are you not
Alone here in this overdue place
Of historic grace and personal doom

Time then to take up the call to arms
In the farms for unusual naval ratings
We are waiting for you to enlist
In the whist drive reading room


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Wednesday 18 February 2015

Pier Head Blues

But this is more than any breeze
Gale force, or whatever they say
On the shipping forecast

Yet all the while
Sunshine bright enough
To blind the writer in reflection

You might call it wild
Myself 
I've called for a cappuccino

Which duly arrives
Resplendent on a silver tray
With jam and scones and cream


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