Ode to Downs

Before birth, before your book opens,

I have you working out a story; to be traveling

without shadow, baggy trousered. I reckon

the plot will be discussed and, then alone,

you muster provisions; chubby fingers, thick neck,

bigger tongue, hooded eyes – oh - and a heart!

I hear from mystics it was like this.

Pounding of blood in the ear, in the brain,

(like the sea) as you set out, naked, clumsy,

across stony ground, surefooted,

with your oil lamp yet unlit, trudging,

knowing we need that light, a sacrifice

as if we'll have a better chance, wrongfooted.

Throw

Yesterday in hissing rain

I took a trailer full of junk

away.

Today the crows are cawing loud;

hopping, flapping up the trees

for joy.

Mirror

I rest my head against the window

of a running train, using

my red raincoat as pillow;

half asleep, tapping laptop keys,

reading, surfing. Close, in the corner

of both smarting eyes I see

a blood red jacket blocking

out my view and, wondering,

why would you do that, you know,

hide from your own true reflection?

South

In theory this is a fast train

heading for London. He hopes no one

speaks to him or asks for help.

Help’s a big-ask so early.

Sky gray and the table

in the carriage is a meter long, half

a meter wide. Other people sleep or yawn.

Could be he’ll write a poem or

clock a few emails. Maybe read a book.

He ought to read novels.

A mate’s

Dad is aged ninety six in hospital. Aunt Sheila

lived alone for forty years and now

lies dying in a bed in a Care Home. His son

drove his car fast in pissing rain for the first

time yesterday. Floating along are tenements,

trees and a sense of fear. A little madness and

denial of logic and reason. This train journeys

on South, arriving, maybe, sometime.