Thursday, 31 January 2013


I walk into a café’s mouth
and wander lonely as a soul
amongst the faces; people laugh
and grin and point at purple sea and
mountains on the wall.

In here, ice cream; knickerbocker
glory; outside, snails are sliming in the wet
and, as I gaze, a waiter (‘Peter’ on his name badge) says
‘It’s not self-service,’ wafts a menu in his hand
‘what’ll you get?’

Monday, 28 January 2013

Seven Ages of Day

Sun’s as bright as a hospital lightbulb
makes me eyes water and cry;

time to be up and about in me trousers,
get me washed into the day.

Just before lunchtime, I chat to me mates,
head off to the caff with young Amy

and by mid-afternoon I be graftin’ like bullocks
or else I’ll end up in the army

but just before tea-time I suss it all out
and tell all the bosses ‘bog off’

then flop in me chair now, with cold beans on toast
and watch me some footie on t’box

but it’s darker than caves, and both eyes are red,
so I’d better head off up the stairs into clouds in my bed.