Stranger

Sometimes, it’s easy

to live for strangers:

their eyes belong elsewhere;

their dreams won’t disturb.

Faces we can’t see

absolve us,

leaving our nakedness open,

our ghosts intact.

What we don’t know protects,

granting redemption,

before truth destroys us

in its eager rush.

If you were a stranger

and we could connect,

we might make a language

of all the words lost.

Brixham Banksy

Is It a ‘Banksy’,

a real-live Banksy?

Tell us it’s a Banksy.

Must be a Banksy,

why not?

If it is a Banksy,

it’s worth something, innit?

Not just a nibble;

squillion, at least.

Can’t be a Banksy,

not really -

in this place?

Not never. No way.

Bet you it’s not.

But how can you tell

if it isn’t a Banksy?

Looks like a Banksy,

so it could be a Banksy.

Down by the market?

He’s human, at least.

Only Bansky can tell

if it’s really a Bansky,

and is he for real?

Is Bansky a Bansky?

Only Banksy would know that;

and he’s an enigma,

whatever that means,

so who can be sure?

Maybe no one’s a Banksy,

not even Banksy,

you thought of that?

What’s it mean anyway,

bloke chucking fish?

If I was Banksy

(and I’m not saying I’m not, right?)

I’d throw in some chips.

Dawn Run

Berry Head, Devon

Light tugs at your heels,

a wakeful child,

hungry for answers.

It begs you to paint a cave,

sketch logs,

invent a fire,

crack jokes with the gulls,

build a new world

before breakfast.

Instead, you jog back

down cliff-top paths,

past battlefields of gorse

and wary Devon cows

to where home lies waiting.

Leaving the sun

to stop fooling around

and sort out the day,

as usual.

Descent

On Monday, he noticed a rip

in the sky,

growing larger the more he thought;

and wondered if

this was a sign.

On Tuesday, laughter

came and went.

He ignored it.

On Wednesday, nothing happened

and he was afraid.

On Thursday, he knew

that left three days

to remake the world.

On Friday, he realised

time was old.

Saturday, the earth

grew quiet.

On the seventh day, he wept,

knowing that nothing mattered now,

not even the authorship

of these words.

Enfant

They say she’s asleep,

but you’re not sure:

a presence

in the night,

no one will hear.

Shadows conspire,

down the long passage

to bed.

Shut the door gently

and creep,

hoping her cries won’t wake

the monster.

Mary

Sleeps in the doorway

by the baker’s,

where Woolllies used to be.

Clenched in shawls,

in the shadows,

wary of the boys.

Shoppers watch

her shuffle by:

eyes stalk her to the check-out

and beyond,

back to her world.

The snacks she crumbles,

stick to her fingers

like dough.

No answer,

just a squeak:

hardly a protest

at the cold.

Saw her in Fore Street

this morning

on her way.

Someone had given her

a fur-trimmed coat.

Looked quite the part, her did.

From the back, you wouldn't notice.

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.