Thursday, 12 September 2013


He plods, and asks, for ‘tickets please’
beneath  this old train roof;
alarms are hanging from the eves
- and passengers are safe.

People turn and smile and look
(outside, a shocking sea)
this train is traveling to a stop
wherever we will be

and, in each carriage, swinging doors
so I could saunter through
and talk or pay, or sleep or play,
or curl in my cocoon?

The driver knows the route we take
but only he can see
our spiral west into the dark
on a ticket for today.

Monday, 9 September 2013


Thank you for holding.

We may never know what’s going on
at the very centre of our Earth
where, four thousand miles straight down,
zooms a point, indivisible, hot.

Thanks for continuing to hold.

At least old Mozart’s a tuneful balm
but, sadly, there’s a potential burst,
a chance of magma time:
to do my best or to do my worst.

Thanks for holding.