THE BATTLE OF THE COMMUTE

The Whump! Whump! Whump! of car doors being slammed signals the opening salvos in the Battle of the Commute. Brake-lights slowly snake into town as a giant, homogeneous, metal monster is mobilised; feeding on irritation, apathy and rage, it searches for the souls of lost dreams.

WAITING FOR A MORNING RESCUE

Mist casts a dust sheet across an early morning. Outlines of chimney stacks are the only navigable points on the horizon. Distant lighthouses for eyes lost at sea, yet the safe harbour of familiarity feels an ocean away. I'm drifting on a dream, waiting for a morning rescue.

THEY ONCE TOLD ME

"Your dreams can come true" they once told me,

Which wasn't the filip they thought,

Who wants to be doing exams in the nude,

Or falling and never be caught?

"Your goals are in reach" they once told me,

"Be anything you want to be"

I never became The Fonz or Kung Fu,

But I'm still holding out for Bruce Lee.

LOST LANGUAGE

A tree; bent with age at the middle, doilies of green leaves fussing along its branches, home to strange hieroglyphs and lost language.

I stand; bent with age at the middle, listening to a conversation I know I can never understand.

It is enough that it makes me stop and smile.

BY THE WAR GRAVES

Atop our cemetery wall can be found stubs of uneven,blackened teeth.Fixed in Time's rictus grin,they are all that's left of iron railings,clipped for a wartime effort designed to bind closer our boundary of death. Harvests of hope. They sit with old company.

AT THE FIRST STROKE

Time; ever the Gentleman Thief,

forced to return that

which was effortlessly stolen.

a bauble, one trinket hour of traduced Time, mere costume jewelry tarnished with indifference.

Time; ever the Gentleman Thief,

gently strokes a sleeping face and smiles.

LOVE UNDER THE CANOPY

I look towards a sky

filled with a panoply of trees,

and there I spy a love

under the canopy's soft breeze.

BRIEF WHITE WORLD

Tuesday arrives on a swirling luge of cold, white air. Underfoot; frost-tipped grass sounds the first crunch of autumn, crisp as a bite from the sweetest apple. Shimmering ice crystals dance upon pavements and rooves before a petulant Sun reclaims this brief Narnia of the dawn.

STOP

Sunday arrives spinning thin cotton clouds to garnish a morning with whispers of white. Redundant chimney pots pretend that they still have a job. Evergreen trees watch deciduous neighbours slowly undress. Lawns stop growing soon. Not yet. Any minute now, though. They just st 

MEMORIES OF TEA

when I first sip my cup of tea 

I ease into my memory

here is every sip I've taken

hidden well but now awakened

memories of tea I've shared 

or drank alone in soft armchairs

they all come rushing back to me

when I first sip my cup of tea.