Thursday, 15 November 2012


most people on a flying train
would ‘get’ that space is time
- that space is limited,
- that time is ticking fast;

and an emptier tunnel is coming,
where (at a moment when brakes won’t work)
the tracks run out and we don’t know
who will steer or drive the engine on

but if you ask Andrew
to stop singing and dancing
he’ll look direct and quizzical
to say ‘Oh what!?’ and then ask

the big bad ask we all could ask;
‘Are you mad, mate, are you mad?’

Monday, 12 November 2012


Plentiful, a few leaves rattle overhead;
uncountable , brown collateral
-  mulch of a future generation

and, every second, a dry cornflake floats
or plummets onto muddy autumn ground;
to be soaked and eaten by water, worms and earth.

Whilst airborne, no longer fixed or allied
to a mother tree with her branch and fire; deep, deep roots,
but, re-formed, sways away from her great connection
(with soft-hard edges) into a new collective.

Heading for chemical, mineral, damned decay
in a spinning fall from old body to new body
at the turn of the season, heading inevitably into
a turn of the year.