Wednesday, 20 June 2012


A pulsating throb cuts
through the pregnant pause.
‘You have a new message’, it beats.
Flexing fingers fumble for ‘Select’.
Brain brims with wave upon wave of intrepid possibility.
The tide subsides…
It is not her.



Silently I sit on my balcony.
A recent downpour has showered the deck.
I perch here with bare feet,

one foot lightly kissing the shiny wood,
the other balancing across my knee -
toes flirting with the wind.

Rain drops, with condemned fear in their eyes, hang
from the cold metal bars in front of me,
necks fighting gravity.

The dark urbanised sky drifts above me
concealing enquiring stars from my eyes.
Here, I too am hidden.

A part of the world's natural order
and yet an onlooker, inspired and safe.
It's me and my jotter.

You once sat here with your roll-ups and smiles
commenting on this urban miracle.
Its portal of secrets.

We lived out forgotten dreams for a night
knowing that dawn's abrupt reality
was planning his ambush.

Police sirens arouse me from my thoughts.
Beating lights flash upon the droplets, still
somehow clinging for life.

Only now when I am alone like this
and the rain begins to thud down, blotting
the paper with hot tears…

Perhaps I loved you more than you loved me.
And the drops well up and fall from the bars,
betraying memory.

I’m going inside now.
The sky is weeping.
My words are the sponge.



Those dreamy walks in warm night air confessed a hidden glow,
And through the chiselled rocks of Rome our brief affair did twist.
The Pantheon to Peter’s Square let conversation flow,
Red wine did conjure drunken spin and secretly we kissed.

Emerging dawn might then have dried our dreamy hopes away,
But this was Rome and such inaction wouldn’t be allowed.
Amidst colossal fighting rings the real world could not weigh,
Our time was short and so we seized what chance had thus endowed.

I thought my heart was free to give but fatally was wrong:
A voicemail whispered in my ear of sadness and regret.
She said I miss you, please come home – to where we both belong.
My foolish heart conceded and the dream I did forget.

Our hurried kiss to say goodbye consigned us to the past,
But in the light of hindsight it should not have been our last.


Embryonic Dreams

My heart has pumped the pain
cold crystal through my veins.
Sharp shingles scraping bitter truths,
etching my soul.

Trapped in a cobweb of memory,
lifeless and limp,
gathering dust.

Left to myself and time
each silky string would have stretched free of the next
like disentangling memories.

Yet your spidery lips
hissed sounds my deadened heart
sought to hear.

Hope rotted within me,
killing any new life
that entered my cursed web.

If you only knew the hurt,
the crystallised pain,
gnawing my insides

as you, the preying widow
pounced on embryonic dreams…

Enough. I have tasted freedom
on another’s lips.
And mirrored in her eyes I saw
at last my insect form.

Pitiful and bruised.
Bloodshot heart,
Shredded wings,
Deathbed eyes.

Knotted in your arachnid saliva
adhesive regret claws at my senses.

My torn wings
batter their fastenings
and my stretching sinews
rip free of your spun lair.


The Journey Home

Lips still soft from your kisses;
fresh memories washing by,
breezy and muddled,
scattering fumbled images on rolls of film.

Head slightly sore
but only from those many snatched breaths
taken in severed gasps of passion.
Starved of reliable oxygen

lungs can pump only rhythmical throbs of adrenalin.
My legs are weak,
strangely loose at the knee, oiled and unscrewed.

My skin is smooth where you touched it.

The fragrance of your neck still breathes within my nostrils.
I can feel grains of make-up dusted around my mouth,
a thin layer of paint from your canvas trusted to me.

Your kisses:
so soft  
so taunting
so delicate.

You lost me somewhere in your eyes
and scarcely could I close my own
even to kiss,
such a portrait did you seem.


Breakfast In Bed

Scrambled egg and love.
Savour the taste.
But scraping the burnings from the pan takes longer than you think.
Remember that your heart is not a non-stick pan.



I was an amateur to love,
surviving - I thought - on instinct.
There I was, emblazoned in light           
on Broadway

singing to words I hadn’t learnt
In a plot I knew nothing of.
Carried along with the first night’s

Escaping from my cliff-edged nest
before my wings had strength to fly.
blossoming before the winter’s
final frost.

So when the theatre lay hushed
and swirling winds coughed me up and
rain bled into clotting knives, you
captured me.