Hey Bobbie Gentry

Hey Bobbie Gentry

where did you go?

There’s a guy over in Collyhurst

who’d really like to know.

It’s always when he’s on a bridge

that he feels so.



The Sun Stays High

The Sun Stays High

A breeze gets up amid placid dreams,
attracting the eyes of languid hosts.
The sudden movement draws them out.

An old man wilts like a flower,
his strength sapped by countless summers.
His skin taut, tanned leather.

The children play on, reddened rogues,
among the scrub, with salted lips.
Shaded by their ceaseless scorn.

Wooden wind chimes, glockenspiels,
induce a torpid, cloaking down.
The sun stays high, consolidates.