Memory

The sun shines, warm and soft
and yet still I wake, empty
under the empty bed, with the wet
knowledge that you are dead.

The Bateleur's Beak

Blinded eyes are a silken
white. We look away
cold with closing hands,
apathetic to the fray.

Underneath the sands
no fueling river runs,
despite the raging onslaught
no saviour ever comes.

Black and silence stained,
a red and curving blade,
the Bateleur's beak is over
all and scorning any aid.

The veins beneath the surface
are empty and collapsed.
Their poison cargo carried
Harare's pulse has lapsed.

The Coming Of The Season

From the new sprigs of justice baubles hang:
a glittering mockery.
In the square the people stand and sing.
A Row of tents on the cold concrete pitched:
a useless protest: their ears are stitched.

Churchill stands over, double breasted
sheet metal, leaning on his stick.
The wind curls around as mint.
George Canning stands at the back
his stone cloak billowing black.

The tall iron fence: impassable.
The golden rivulets of parliament
sneer out through the pointed onyx.
To decorate this unreachable place:
the coming of the season
and the end of reason.

On The Pavement Lies

The streets are paved with gold,
so runs the old cliché.
The bankers sit in affluence
counting up their pay.
Bright red buses filled to burst
with workers on their way:
smiling people in the race,
and gaining every day.

The cliché's split and bent,
with the city all but spent;
Ii the ashes children play.

The streets aren't paved with gold
they're worn and cracked and cold;
there is nothing more to say.

Margate

Steel waves slap against the stones,
driftwood and discarded carrier bags
litter the shore, the memory sags
painfully, seeping from my bones.
Flashing lights have all but faded.
shouts linger and echo on the air
of my brother and I, a joyful pair.
The pebbles stare up at me, jaded.

I try to tell my son about this place
but his mind cannot accept what is
beautiful is just hiding its face.
Alone here on the would-be sand
my mind aches back for days of
bliss. It is now the waste land.

Through The Haze

Dystopia twisted, wraps around us like flies,
concrete statues marching always onward
as a silent thrusting violence, clouding disguise,
darkened smog shrouds the sunset forward.

Caught amidst grey smoke and cancerous fumes
a small silhouette there, innocence dropped
from his hands. Hatred curls in spires and plumes,
it’s too late, cold fate cannot be stopped.

His eyes reflect cruel towers skyward reaching,
echoing as glass. His thoughts ebb and fall.
resigning legs beneath him are downward seeking,
his throat gives out a scratching lingering call.

I find I’m filled with regret for the dark silhouette,
the twisted knife in his back, his blood running black.
Solace is easy to get, don’t turn away yet;
there’s no coming back, he’s lost, cast into black.

Bleak House

Cold that grips to bind,
bending floorboards warped
my foot hereunder.
I watched the ivy wind
pulling slowly them asunder.

Throughout dust motes hang,
stifling tinsel threading
the banisters through.
I watched with a pang
those wasting lonely two.

Darkling brown the paper peels,
rolling downward slowly
casting a darkened shadow.
I watched over meals
their faces turning sallow.

The house stands empty,
a greying ashen hue.
Left in a corner leaning,
a disused snooker cue.