Journey

Who can name

a town

where fiction ends;

foretell, as credits fade,

their journey home?

Time preys

like some lost angel,

deceiving the voyager;

a scripted adventure

striving nowhere:

canvas without wind

disturbs the artist’s hand,

till truth comes

with sharpened words;

or hope,

like a bedtime story,

invents a world

where travellers survive

till morning.

Dream On

They’re coming for you,

The lives you ignored:

Those little people

Passing below,

Morning and evening.

Asleep at noon,

You feel yourself adored,

A Klee or Kandinsky,

Inventing some brave new world.

Achieving glory

As an artist should,

While clutching the duvet tight.

Dream on,

Ignoring the creak

On the stairs:

The scuffle of shoes

And murmured threats,

Spurred on by

The landlady’s whispers.

News from Nowhere

Turning the page, one is

At ease, in a practical sense,

Preserving one’s distance on trains:

Reliving events as told,

If not as they really are,

In places we rarely go.

Words that don’t speak for us

But strangers everywhere;

Absorbed in our sanctuary

As the bus rumbles home:

Disaster and war,

The plight of stars,

Politicians whose power

Attracts,

While raising the tide of fear;

Each headline a litany

Of lives unshared,

Making awareness safe

For readers whose fate,

Despite all that's known,

Remains a mystery.

Clueless

That dark cloud passing could be a sign

Of thoughts drifting back

To the scene of the crime.

The clock says three,

Though time’s a mystery;

And the cops as usual

Are clueless.

Fiction won’t change your life,

But it could hold the key:

Pages lead us to truths

We should have guessed.

Days like this, I stay home,

With murder in mind.

Sifting remains,

In bed with PD James.

Albion Nights

There’s nothing so lost

As a small town at dusk,

When those who can have gone,

Leaving streets to their fate.

Kids, skateboarding by the mall,

Perfect a geometry

That says little of school.

For them, tomorrow is a long way off.

In pubs, locals hoard

The day like change,

Tending a world where

The one thing you trust

Is your average pint.

A St George’s flag

Flies from the Norman keep,

As sunset brings ruins

To life.

Night stretches

To pull down the blinds,

For tourists with time to spare

Despite every plan,

While darkness succumbs

To dreams of Full English.