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.

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.