Stopping,

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?’

Autumn

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.