Tuesday, 31 January 2017

Wolves

The airport is full of wolves.
So is the car hire kiosk,
the convenience store
and even the hospital.
They stand silently, watching,
eyes following my every move.
Grey and thin. Alert.
Waiting to pounce.
Padding silently behind me.
Forming a pack that waits
just outside my line of sight.
Ancient knowledge in their eyes.
Knowledge they won't impart,
and I can't ask for.
Walk briskly. Stay focused
on the airport, the car hire kiosk,
convenience store and hospital.
Ignore the pack of grey wolves
silently circling.


Sent from my iPhone

Friday, 27 January 2017

Foxes on the Motorway

Late January,
and everything feels
like 4am.
Foxes crossing the motorway.
The current waiting time through security
is twelve minutes.
No lingering at Duty Free;
gate closes at 05.55.
One small bag,
out and back same day.
I'll sleep on the flight.
Sleeping household behind me.
Sleeping cats and dogs.
Foxes on the motorway at 4am.
I'll sleep long enough when I'm dead.




Sent from my iPhone

Friday, 13 January 2017

We'd been for a walk with the dogs.

We'd been for a walk with the dogs.
Pub lunch, late Sunday afternoon.
All easy, all good.
Passed you, sitting on a bench,
by the church.
Head slumped.
Slurring your words
(insulated in my car)
and drooling.
I didn't mention I'd seen you.
Drove past, drove home,
to my little two up, two down.
Home to tea,
home with the dogs.
And you still sitting there,
Sunday afternoon pissed.

Wednesday, 11 January 2017

Later Than I'd Hoped

The traffic was at a standstill on the A38,
so I turned off and took the back roads into Birmingham.
It was already later than I'd hoped,
and I still had to go into town
to exchange christmas presents,
then get to Maple Dene to see mama,
before heading to the airport and flight home.
The back roads turned out to be longer
and busier than I'd expected.
Through Sutton Coldfield, past the hotel
where my dad did his shows,
past the turning to Sutton Park,
where my brother made me dive off the boat
to pick up his weights from the bottom of the lake.
Into Erdington (where I took my driving test),
past the turn for Oscott, and the cemetery
where my Babcia, and my brother,
and my dad and aunt and uncle
are buried.
Back onto the A38 at Spaghetti Junction.
Aston Hall on the right, where we used to go
with Mama and Mietek,
to walk his alsation in the park.
On into the Bull Ring, old roads and new roads,
past what used to be the Mercatt Cross,
(where we watched Fashion play,
and drank underage), and,
missing the turn for the car park,
through chinatown into Hurst St to park
up by the Hippodrome.
All changed, and all the same.
Later than I'd hoped.

Sunday, 11 December 2016

This is what it is to be alive.

This is what it is to be alive.
A dog barks. Traffic.
Rain falling gently, consistently.
Still December afternoons,
a quietness over the world.
Skin porous and ready to absorb the world.
Alpacas in a field.
A small hand in yours
as you walk down the road.
This is what it is.
Skin erupting in blisters.
Small things in small spaces.
Someone remembers you.
A hospital bed.
Alive takes many forms.
This is what it is to be alive.
Heart beating at 4am in the dark.
The dog pushes her head under your hand.
A bottle of wine on Friday night.
This is it, this is what it is.
Colouring pencils in a small child's hand.
A wooden spoon stirring a bowl.
Family around the table.
This is what it is,
and this is what it is not.
To be alive, absorbing everything,
sucking it in to the soft centre,
churning it, burning it
turning it around
and then shouting to the rooftops
THIS! THIS!
THIS is what it is to be alive!