Sea Life

And some time take a chance on riding east

to Whitby, where Atlantic waves hit shore

on a wintry day - when real wind

catches blue light and, together, harass

the land. That ocean’s wilder than a horse;

and, when you look, the moors, slate and snow

have their edges smashed by wave on waves,

churning shingle, rasping white and white,

when relentless, curling grasping petals

turn and grab, release.

Unless you’re God, and know what’s going on,

you’re ungrounded here:

so quickly hurry onto pavements

before the next refreshing wave hits sideways,

catches your awaiting heart and cracks it open.

Caffeine

In my eyes

I see a

white cup, forefinger and

thumb reaching to

sidestep an

itching of

sand

in my eyes.

Bought it

In coach B, an old man drops his bag

on a seat. This is England; it rains outside

and he fiddles with iphone, earplugs, lifts a lid

on his laptop, Apple, opening like a split fruit.

Along, a train guard asks for ‘tickets from Sheffield’

and -ding- ‘the catering car is open’;

for this, I squirted petrol, fought my traffic,

queued to hold a watery cup of tea?

Hole-in-the-wall, plastic card, keep bags with you:

yes, and look down all the train to see

miniaturisation, conformity, Noah’s ark,

a valid ticket, all aboard, let’s start.

And grizzled, average, lit by electricity,

an old man fiddles gadgets, flexes digits, sleeps.

Flying a train home

A carriage – boxy - like a temporary home,

traveling faster than man or woman chanced

a century ago, has luminescence

seeking to split air with its momentum;

a flying caravan that will, one day, age and

crumble, travel back to elemental earth-fire

like every field and wall and mountain rush-

ing past. Inside, newspapers rustle, work-harden

and people shout into their mobiles ‘I’m on

the train..’ often with a patronizing

edge, smug, inside a metal cylinder.

Perhaps big torpedoes feel secure

and, for a while, defy space-time and all

our hard-to-face inevitable fresh decay.