Poetry

Hearses

Like regrets drifting through consciousness,
They glide through the streets of our cities,
Untouchably themselves,
Silently intent on their purpose,
Counting eternities with each corner they turn.

Window on the World

I am making a window on the world,
A stained-glass window through which to look at things.
It is very much my own creation,

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Wound

Take a butcher’s red by Goya
And an arctic blue by El Greco.
Gently fold in an agonised beige by Grunewald

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St. Francis in the Slaughter-House

He left his sparrows waiting at the door
And entered like a draught, his bare feet treading

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Studio

Always the same old silence
And the same old,
Always different,
Northern light.

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Tuesday Poem: Old Timer

You see me now as what I have become again:
Chromework like mercury

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Tuesday Poem: There can be few things…

There
Can
Be
Few
Things

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Tuesday Poem: Thoughts of a Bicycle

Of course I am only a machine
And full of natural frailty.
My tyres go soft,
My chain drops off,
My brake blocks wear out

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Tuesday Poem: Hospital

Among the many roads we have to travel in this life,
Nothing prepares us for this:
The one we will one day travel every Sunday afternoon –
Or every Saturday afternoon,
Or even every evening –

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