Vigil

I count the funerals

One by one,

Waiting for time to end.

The guest list

Shrinks,

While longevity brings

The advantage of repentence.

If you beat me to

The Promised Land,

Save some manna for me.

I loved you,

But you couldn’t stay.

Morituri te salutant

Camden Night

The moon has lost its way,
Meandering home,
Like the drunkard it is.

Pale outlaws wait
By Camden tube.
At bay in restless pubs,
Prophets ignore the hour.

On Camden Road, you can hear
Old men in bedsits
Berating the night.

The canal, which their ancestors dug,
Glints oddly, as if it understood:
Despair is the city’s fate,

Its heart of clay,
Beating back generations.