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The night is asleep.
The wind rustles leaves outside,
like a sleeping lovers breath,
steady, balanced, constant,
a counterpoint to my brain’s activity.
Flitting.
Unable to focus.
Unsettled.
Unheard voices drift together in snatched sentences,
constructed of words that happened;
of words that are imagined;
of words that will never be said.
I see endless greys,
reflections of permutations,
trying to look them in the eye
like trying to see more than the shapes,
in the dark,
that loom,
undefined.
A rumble gently forms and grows and exhales
in time to the breathing of the wind.
The boundaries of sleep,
blur with reality.
The border shifts and stirs.

This field,
An island.
The shore,
A tide line of greys,
Heaped into trees.

This grass,
A sea.
The waves,
Speckled with mistle,
Frozen with dew.

People rushing to appointments with desks,
Collars high to keep out wind,
Blown leaves that swirl and loiter,
Linger high,
Then tumble back to flagged floor,
Sticking in reflections that ripple as,
Feet tramp,
Splashing hems with liver spots.

Bright snatches of colour,
brave colour,
Valiant flag-poled scarves,
Disordered tresses,
Ruffling dresses,
Thick coats,
Woollen suits,
Patent boots,
Signalling Birmingham’s grey days.

Words twist in my palm.
Words thrown, cutting fresh scars
As they leave my hand.
Un-healing, arcing back to sting.

Twist my palms. In words
Of remorse I claw back;
Words said rather than unsaid,
Uttered rather than left thought.

My palms twist words in
Order to manipulate.
Yet half of the message
Is broken by its reception.

Found in snow and ice,
Preserved.
A relic from a past unremembered.
Familiar with harsh winters.
Familiar with hunting and gathering.
Familiar with storing up and laying by.
Closed your eyes and dreamt of summer.

Found amidst packets of ice,
Preserved.
An unremembering neanderthal.
Unfamiliar with harsh winters.
Unfamiliar with hunting and gathering.
Unfamiliar with storing up and laying by.
Closed your eyes and dreamt of Tesco.

London dopplers through my room.
Window wide, eyes closed.
Basso rumbles fill unseen silences;
Silences stolen by rail and tyre.

London rush-hour squeals and cries.
Trees rustle silent protest,
Unable to be heard, they menace;
Menace with tripping roots.

London settles with canine bark.
Darkness spreads down buildings.
Yet sussurus murmurs sweetly;
Sweetly describing tomorrows noise.

I can see an end.
I see it in your face.
I see it in your eyes;
the things you don’t say.

The things you don’t say.
I see pain in your eyes,
I see pain in your face.
I can’t say sorry.

He can’t say sorry.
Sorry is meaningless,
confronted with nothing.
It’s not his to say sorry.
it’s my own diagnosis.

virility

Chesty hairs speak virility,
As rolling thighs,
And hanging flab,
Quiver,
In rhythm,
With,
The pudgy flailing,
Of hands.

Sweat beads his brow,
While his chins pulsate,
With big mouthed,
Utterances.
Swollen ear lobes,
Flapping,
As he slaps his wife.
Putrid flesh casting,
Yellow shadows,
As toad like,
He sits,
Mouthing words.

We met once or twice,
You and I.
I remember you sitting in you chair,
Fragile,
Surrounded by buttons and phones.

I thought you were sweet,
Sitting there.
I wanted to know about your past,
Your dreams,
Your hopes when you were younger.

Sitting in pain, you never complained.
You asked after friends and family every time,
Making sure that everyone else was fine.

The last time I saw you, I knew,
I wouldn’t see you again.
Yet I will remember,
The second,
Mince pie.

Transfixed,
As he stands,
He sees nothing,
Flying,
Over clouds,
Scudding.

Emptiness from horizon,
To horizon.
Nothing but grass,
Swaying.

Swaying,
As he stands,
Eyes fixed,
Neck cricked.
Mind tricked.
Transfixed.