THE DREAM-CHANGER AND ME

The comforting white noise of a gently whirring fan. The edifying solidity of that red dot in the dark, telling me my TV is standing by. The gentle shifting of the duvet as my wife repositions her dreams. I roll unnoticed out of bed and make tea for the dream-changer and me.

A BIT OF A STRETCH

though time will stretch & limber up,

the second hand will move

no faster around that dial

than we can speed up

for a missed

bus.

MESSY

We wind a way around the mental maze from Xmas to the New Year. Along the way we gather clues. Tiny scraps of wrapping paper, cocktail sausages that have rolled under the sofa, a faint echo holding the last fizz of a fading party. Clues that we were really here. And really messy!

STORM SWAPS

I wish I'd taken my gazebo down in time,

This wind has blown it from its garden space.

But every storm cloud as we know is silver-lined,

As next doors shed blows in to take its place.

A REAL MILD CHILD

Today is unseasonally mild. So mild that if today was in a cafe it would clear the table when it was finished. It would apologise for bumping into you. It would let you go first in a queue. Not everyday is as mild as today. Let's take the opportunity and try to be mild in return.

FUZZY DAYS

Christmas Day; now the Ghost of Christmas Past. We're into the familiar territory of unfamiliar days. It's Monday, if anyone's counting. It's acceptable to go cold turkey for breakfast, even chocolate orange and beef for lunch. Tin foil's king of the fridge. Leftovers and out.

DECKED MY HALLS

I raise a mug-too early for sherry

to those who once made Xmas so merry

and now reside in places unknown

a place I hope one day I'll be shown.

I raise a mug-too early for wine

to those who once at my table dined

to those who are no longer here

they decked my Xmas halls with cheer.

THE POET'S TRAIL

Old dales and old valleys and new peaks we seek;

carved by those poets of yore,

we rise from their trails to the top just to speak

of what's worn away before.

1 DAY LEFT

1 day left until we realise we've bought too much food. 1 day left until we realise we won't be able to watch all the TV we've circled in red in our Radio Times. 1 day left until we try and be heard above our Xmas jumper. 1 day left until we start to think about Easter eggs.

NOT SUITABLE FOR TURKEYS

The moon's decorated itself in tinseled cloud. Or are the wires to the starlights on the blink? Do the birds know its Xmas? Not as catchy as Bandaid, but I wonder if robins peer through window ledges at themselves on cards and wonder what's going on? 

Turkeys should look away...

DROPPED STITCH

There's a dropped stitch in time, there's an error,

In the fabric of all that we know,

Next time that you look in the mirror,

You'll see where all that time did go.

BIN DAY REVOLUTION

The clouds are fussing around the moon like courtiers to a king. The early air is both box fresh and has that new day smell. Occasional sound of scraping along pavement is Shiftwork Neighbour, playing Bin Day chess. I have revolutionary thoughts of moving my bin to take his King.

BLING DONG MERRILY ON HIGH

The street's now wearing its best Xmas bling. Lights throb behind curtains and blinds, socially distanced for the times in which we live. If I look down the hill it seems as if countless silent parties are doing their best to escape from behind closed windows. Maybe next year...

SWISH

I hear a faint swish of passing traffic from a distant ringroad. Busy lives are swiping in and out of mine. Slowly they merge into a low, vibrating hum. I'm happy to listen for a while but soon I find myself pulled in. If you listen carefully, I'm now a faint swish that you hear.

FIGHTING THE FOG

The fog has mist again and blankets our town. Streetlamps are crowned with grubby halos of smudged light. These angels with dirty faces have more sneer than shine. The morning and the fog hold each other like two, tired, fighting drunks. Both quite unwilling to let the other go.

BELIEF IN A BUTTER LIFE

I can't believe the corner shop is out of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. Unbelievably, I pick up butter. Newspapers pop with periodicals periodically peeking out of their pages. Weekend supplements, glossy mags, proclaiming they'll make the weekend special. Can I believe them?

BARCODES

Friday balances on the weekend. In our street, cars make themselves seaworthy, ready to be carried away on the outgoing tide of a morning commute. Big kids in black blazers walk down the hill. Tiny kids in white shirts walk up the hill. If I squint they become one giant barcode.

HERE BE DRAGONS

Make land on the shores of a brand new day;

stroll along the bluffs,

tread the shifting sand dunes,

gaze inland to wonders unexplored.

Map coastlines, this island of time,

give warnings of "Here be dragons."

Contours, detours,

left for those who come tomorrow.

A BRAND NEW PEACE

Darkness. I'm held in early morning's ambiguity, a sense of everything still yet to be imagined. What's to come has to be built from the memory of what's already been. A brand new day constructed from images of the past. Each day I start the puzzle, looking for a brand new peace.

SCHOOL RUN - 14/21/21 - AM

A boy wears enormous headphones. His head nods in time with a silent tune. A small car tries to get out of the IN way. Mini pandemonium ensues. One person can stop the cogs of the early morning routine. The car reverses out. The boy nods on.

FRAMING XMAS

Windows in our street are plump with Xmas decs. Some are incredibly intricate, others are hand-drawn. Some have flashing Santa's atop brightly-lit sleighs, some have tiny trees with colourful  glitter. Big and small ideas brighten up our street. Framing Xmas one pane at a time.

SWINGS WERE AN OPTION!?

The Earth's a giant roundabout and we're just clinging on

I wished I had found out about the swings that some go on

I'd much prefer to be pushed back and forth in gentle sway

Than flying round by fingertips for each and every day.

THE MARVELOUS MECHANICAL SELF-WRITING POETRY MACHINE

I bought a self-writing poetry machine,

It writes all me stanzas, (and it keeps the house clean)

It always finds rhymes and then when they're written,

Like all famous poets, grows weary and sickens.

HOW FASCISM ARRIVES

Not in jackboots

Kicking down doors

But wrapped in the flag

And amending the laws.

LEANING GRAVESTONES

Time's at the gravestones that lean to and fro

Laying its hand upon row after row

Graves where the living no longer attend

Graves where no flowers in vases descend

Time lends each grave such quiet contemplation

Stones bow their heads at this mute validation.

WORD JAIL

Do not find yourself in word jail;

you're not fed on bread and water,

but fed what you've already read

and what you've already thought of.

THE BROW ON OUR HILL

I look down our street on a hill and realise how little changes through the seasons. A view of brick, concrete, tarmac and slate gives little away. Seasons seem to happen elsewhere. No leaves fall in our street because no trees grow. The brow on our hill may actually be a frown.

PARTY GAME

They try too hard to please 

It's now sounding like whine and cheese

I'm none too refined nor arty

But they definitely threw that party.

There's talk of as many as five

As folks fought to stay alive

We're becoming both angry and bored

Just fall upon your sword.

RISE AND SHINE

I rise and shine like a newly-minted bruise on a boxers face; puffy, sore, and alarmingly colourful as I greet a monochrome morning. The day is still showing in black and white but I know the upcoming feature promises ultra-high definition, surround sound, and the best seat in the house.

CORNER-SHOP XMAS

At the corner shop the Xmas decs are up. 1 forlorn-looking tree, alone on the counter. That's it. Every year, just by the scratch cards. Sparsely decorated, tinsel scarf to keep straggly branches from falling off. I love the little guy. He doesn't know it, but he makes me smile.

SANTA STOP HERE

A homemade, cardboard Santa is  pasted to a front window. It leers out with a rictus smile. I'm unsure whether the accompanying 'Santa Stop Here' sign is placed in expectation or warning. The house is down the hill from mine. I hope he starts from the top this year, just in case.

DAWN'S REFEREE

Born of dedicated rumour

Morning is on its way,

It would've been here so much sooner 

But it stopped off with Night to play.

Born of endless necessity 

Dawn will break up these games,

With a quick scold they both will be told 

Just one of you now must remain.

DREAMS OF SPACE 1999

 I dreamed of cities on the moon

And hover crafts to fly,

Though things turned out less opportune

I still looked to the sky.

I stared and wondered at the stars

As they shone back at me,

And though there's no real life on Mars

It set my starman free.

THOUGHT EXPERIMENT

My dog disappears into my black, back garden, straight into a thought experiment. Does he exist if I can't see him? Before I get an answer he rushes from this void, ears flapping, tongue lolling. He appears to accept his absence. If indeed it really is my dog which reappeared...

PACESETTERS

Daylight dips a toe into today. A pile of leaves shiver in a wind trap under a wall. A jogger is a reminder of passing time as he passes my parked car. These clouds will see the dawn but I can't be certain they'll see the sunset. Time jogs on. We are all pacesetters for a while.

SEEN TO BE

What passes for snowfall seems too embarrassed to even settle on the ground. It's blown around absent-mindedly, briefly appearing in the spotlight of a lamppost before scurrying back into the night. Why would it bother? 

Sometimes it's enough to be seen to be. I'll take that.

PAPER CUT

Corner shop. A Wet Floor sign guards an aisle from slippery customers. The cooler light's flickering, or the milk's at a silent disco. A workman with a black eye menaces my imagination with all the possibilities of his shiner. I exit, looking weakly at a paper cut to my finger.