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.

Bearing Up

The Eighties were great,

Forging money all week;

Swilling Krug by the magnum

On wild city nights.

Where has it all gone, you ask,

As you gaze at your estate?

In the bath at noon,

Feeling my weight:

Time brings on questions

The butler can’t help.

He claims ignorance, like the masses,

Staring down with the drinks;

Surveying my splendour

With no hint of reproach.

Things aren’t so bad,

Though the poor still complain,

Crying at the gates.

You can hear them at night,

If the peacocks let up.