I can still hear an alsatian bark
Where once stood the street to my school
And there stood Cerberus
Guard to the scrap yard
We tiny men of Heracles
Dared closer, closer to its salivating bite
By tiny, giggling girls
He was chained
For a brief, glorious time we were not.
I love vapour trails. Temporary exotic sky maps that remind me of stressed-out clouds. Celestial games of noughts and crosses that hang briefly in space. Lines of life. Do the tiny planes wonder about we invisibles on the patchwork ground? There's plenty of room for thought.
The petals will fall to slow down Summer rides
And crumbled to dust they'll become powdered time
A cleaner patina, an imperfect rhyme
One imperfect wave on an effortless tide.
A smattering of security lights
blink on
blink off
as dark shapes idle
down the hill in our street.
Like nervous actors
they briefly shine.
Illuminating homes,
briefly secure.
At the corner shop they're met with standing ovations of light,
before matinee idling home.
Morning's greying mist.
Heavy as the soppy sponge
that pulls wet birds
from a lathered sky.
Where once we were treading
water in overnight pools
of insomnia and sweat;
now change is afoot,
time is at hand.
Autumnal fingers flex
for the tipping of summer.
In my road - Victorian builders once sealed off views to an everlasting sky, tightly packing hard terraced housing into soft hills. My satellite dish look to the stars through a tiny gap in an urban sky. Most starlight falls upon the roof. I'm comforted by that which makes it.
I glimpse a corner of unassuming sky from behind my bedroom curtain. I wonder how many countless stars lie inside this tiny patch. I wonder of other worlds, of other me's, watching back, from other bedrooms. Are they wondering the same as me?
I wave at myself. I wave back.
Cars in my street have yet to wash away
on the sucking tide of the morning commute
Little kerbside boxes
outside larger boxes
drive to other boxes
strive for bigger boxes
We fit the boxes to succeed
We tick the boxes we're decreed
Yet one box is all we'll need.
Orange is the new black. The sun nudges its way to the edge of a dark horizon. This never-ending peat fire bursts from the silent soil of a grateful sky. It will travel its arc, a story of pure light, rising and falling as breath, each spark used to ignite a fresh day.
The last overnight rain gently wipes its feet on a roof. Ancient slate shines beneath the sheen. A terracotta chimney pot is buffed to a dull glow. A TV aerial ripples in expectation. Black dots jostle and settle along its lines, semi-quavering into recognisable droplets of song.
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