ROADKILL DESSERT

Early drive. Saturday, the extrovert of the weekend twins, gets out the magic set as low-lying mist transforms into a golden sun. I pass a large group of joggers (a sweat of joggers?) A bus sighs as it comes to a stop. A crow feasting on roadkill narrowly avoids becoming dessert.

DRIVING PAST

past that road where the radio cuts out

past that hill where I once knew that girl

past that new factory that used to be fields

past that new field that used to be factories

past that shop who were so rude to mum

past the past we all go

driving fast

driving slow.

HOPSCOTCH MONDAYS

A rumour of rain hangs louchely in the air much like a threat from a school bully. An overgrown garden hedge is a messy chugger as people step aside it to pass. A milk bottle on a step has broken all laws of time. A rapidly-fading, chalk hopscotch pattern sums up Monday mornings.

IF WE HAD TO SPEND TIME LIKE WE SPEND CASH

"Have you got any change for an hour?"

"I've only got two days and a week in my wallet."

"A week? Nobody will accept that here."

"I think you'll find it's legal tender in Scotland."

FIRST CUP OF TEA

between all the ticks and the tocks

unknown to the watchers of clocks

when we sup from the cup

we send Time backing up

and memories lost are unlocked.

EARLY DRIVE 7AM

I saw three robots in the rain

The Co-ops metal huskies

They stood so still 

I think they're ill

In fact they might be rusty.

STUMBLE-RUNS

Early drive: I cast my eyes quickly away from the glare of a rising sun as if I'm avoiding eye contact with a disgruntled elderly aunt. 3 big men in hi-vis jackets in the back of a tiny car look like commuting fruit. A man walks, trips, then 'stumble-runs.' He's fooling no one.

I AM NOT THE RESURRECTION

The sun is resurrected from the night to reveal the poker face of inscrutable grey cloud. A light breeze chips away at warmth. A half-finished extension shivers in a tarpaulin wrap. Today is one of the earliest days we remember. Sickly sweet, those tin-foiled, chocolate memories.

THE PRICE OF LOVE

I tell my wife she doesn't snore

Because I love her dearly,

Truth be known it shakes my bones

And half the street, severely.

YAWNING CHASMS

Sleep; that duster of dreams

that pickpocket of hours 

that river who cuts through mountains of time

leaving yawning chasms in its wake.

HI-VIS ANTS

 The early drive to the industrial estate. The Night Shift sticks to the bus stop like hi-vis ants on a drop of jam. Giant warehouses; giant Lego bricks scattered by the Warehouse Giant. The early bus lets the Day Shift off and transforms into the Night Shift's last bus home.