Boiled ham skies for a man in a

demob suit reflected in glass

Heart founded in tragic stories, a river

of endless tears

Arriving at Bradford Interchange the

Martian General remembered he had

not bought toilet supplies

Walk the walk right at the door

I am travelling the wrong way

on the escalator

ascending to the dark side of the moon

IS THAT OUR...

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The mill looms hulking in the dim distance,

looms now long-stilled but filled with pictures

crafted by Hockney, some of his Bradford

long-remembered when he as a lad, would

sketch the hills and mills with broad strokes

but some more contemporary: coal smoke

swapped for cooler pool or beach scenes

or the bold new Wolds canvases: deep greens

and thick line...

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I am reminded of why I take pictures of flowers
with each intrusive click of the camera

the sky has a hungry air - ribbed white clouds -
above an unusual stillness in centenary square

there are professionals circling
looking for the money shot of a woman crying

and one man consciously edges out of my pictures
despite my consciously not edging him in

what looks exchange are thin as ...

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one hears stories of the day the fifty six died
whispered tales over a whiskey at closing
the words coming more from the eyes than the lips

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Trombone Voluntary

On blue days, when the sun breaks the clouds,
I like to take my lunch by the courthouse.
You might call it a fetish. I crunch crisps
and criminally profile the coming and going.

What really draws me though, is the statue
at the centre of the square to Delius.
Every time I promise to listen to his music
and every time I never do. Instead, having eaten,

I circle the...

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