New Year




Writer In A Coffee Shop

Writer In A Coffee Shop

Nobody sees as we do
— a conspiratorial attempt at flattery,
rising up from the books on the slanted shelves.

Vinyl albums are fixed to the ceiling,
you can get a stiff neck 
searching out the soundtrack to your life.

Upstairs the sound of a tattooist, 
reminds him of the dentist,
sets his teeth on edge,
running ravines
of mottled brown.

He hears it still, that night
as she lies with her face to the wall,

a tree brooding in the back garden;
across the rooftops thoughts dissipate
into silence,

yet still, that sound,
transmuted slowly
into goose flesh




A disheartening of crows
gathered in winter fields.

Naked trees 
from disused rail road tracks,

dark stains
on white linen.

In trust we are led
through this stark terrain,

senses soaked
in sparse liquor,

a hungry air tasting our flesh,

a murmuring 
of hardened, thirsting 

They rise, wheeling,
across the sky,

black flecks of mortality
in widening whites of eyes.




Cold flagstone, washed
and swept clean,
potted geraniums and foxgloves
struggling to climb in scarce sunlight.
A neighbour
peers over the wall, on tiptoes,
comparing and contrasting
minimal squares
in linear cells of shadow.

A brief glimpse of a swift,
sleeping on the wing,
suddenly there then gone
— connections cut before the heart
can rise to find substance
in coloured heights,
anchored still 
as it is
to circadian greys.