Fishtown

They’ve switched Santa off for the night,

leaving a muffled shape

among the harbour lights.

The pubs are mute:

press gangs no longer roam

through alleys bent

down to the water’s edge,

to hunt their own reflections.

King William’s statue reigns

where history was built

among the gulls and chip-papers;

A sailing trawler waits

for time’s return

beside its hi-tech cousins.

And sleeping townsfolk trust

morning will come

with long bright fingers

to undo the dark,

revealing a different ending.

Momento

When we were young,

You’d sit us down

And tell us wonders

Of love and loss,

Surviving two wars;

Meeting Gran by chance

In the days when wireless reigned,

And sail still ruled

The waves you’d swum

Since childhood.

You spoke an age

In photographs

Distilled from memory.

I glimpsed you last

As I boarded the ferry home

(before they closed it down):

An arm,

Enigmatically raised

In a brief salute.

Ignoring the final click

Of the shutter.

Mutations

If you flew through the ceiling,

The world wouldn’t stop;

You could haunt me at leisure

Or we could just chat.

You could tell me about graveyards,

How ghosts really feel;

How useless a heart is

With just time to heal.

We could pull apart logic

And exorcise fate,

Unravel life’s mysteries,

Make light of love’s ways.

If you turned blue and vanished,

It'd be just like old days.

Smoke and Mirrors

It’s often like that, don’t you think?
Things don’t turn out as planned,
Unless they’re not:


Those mist-filled moments

Where everything’s clear.

Take your name:
I forgot it the moment you said it,
But still remember.

With dreams,
You don’t need a map.

I’ll meet you here,
At the café
With the faded mirrors,
Wherever you are.