Strange to think of people gone 
on a day such as this. 
As walking I go, breathing to heaven 
with all the other moving souls 
filing into into the lamp lit station,
A thick procession of winter coats
like mourners at a funeral keeping 
a grand silence between us.
Are the dead looking down at us?
Ferrying terminal to terminal
in the lonely rattling dark
running circular with our flawed...

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Hi all, some of you may remember I was planning to pull together a collection of my poems written over the last 10 years.  Well after doing that the sympathetic people at Palewell Press have decided to publish the collection this December.

The poems are night themed, either written at night or about the night. 

While it's not a giant literary event it's an exciting opportunity and I owe a lo...

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There's no end tonight.
Sat at the same desk
waiting for the next chapter to walk in
but nothings moving
just the aspidistra nodding
to the tireless fan,
the Venetian blinds
blowing the scent of
rain soaked streets.
Down below the street lights
change to noone.
A single green light blinks
In the direction of the harbour.
An ant crosses the great plains of my desk.
I sit back and writ...

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The world has put itself to sleep
under new sheets
and for awhile we can allow ourselves
to forget a few things,
the bright plans of a new year
flown over the roofs
to somewhere south
that welcomes forgetfulness,
leaving only these sparrows
in the bare trees of your expression-
a cupboard of essentials to see out the year.
Enough for this plain soup
to enjoy at a darkened window
watch...

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The wind in the trees wakes you,

crossing and uncrossing hands

against the wall.

In the corner the spider weaves in darkness

diligently perfecting his

only means of expression.

He’s clinging to it with his life

knowing the slightest breeze

might blow it all away.

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Look at the moon

skirting the window,

what's he looking for?

A glimpse of you perhaps

remembering

the times you used to walk these

hallways naked

or sit at this window

in only a robe.

How he used to attend on you

like a forgotten star

of the the silver screen

long vanished

from a thousand exposures.

Still he appears here dutifully,

projecting his light ...

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How easy it is to lapse

into false memory

lying awake deepening the grooves

of a thought over and over.

Was it really you in that room all those years ago?

Lent over a desk on a hot summer night

listening to the quietened sounds

of a humming city,

feeling closer than ever

to all that was vital in life

as a woman whose thoughts

you couldn't fathom

lay meters from...

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Dust blurred the moon,

a little rain sweated the fields

where in dim machine lights

slim silhouettes were raising dark altars 

from newly threshed bails.

The seeded air posted envelopes

of mellowed scents

through the open window,

summoning ghosts of foreign evenings,

as we without words went gusting by

the dark road widening before us.

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Driving at midnight 

to my father's house

listening to Neil Young quietly

the warm air billowing 

the muddied scent

of threshed fields seasoned with rain,

thinking I know each turn

of this road by heart,

familiar as a conversation

you know every word to

before it begins,

the road unravelling

like a long sentence

of someone who talks

with no purpose,

I t...

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Sat alone except for the cats
who've come to watch the moths
in the light above the table
I drink wine and breathe in the warm air
above the emptying restaurant below
and listen to a last group spilling onto
the Carrer d’En Bordils
with a crescendo of mopeds and laughter
and footsteps, a girl in white,
with dark limbs, glimpsed
between the railings, retreating
until there is nothing
...

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The future is blank
it's a big secret
nobody is saying anything about it.
I wake just before dawn
to the sound of
trees shaking hands
outside the window,
the wind sweeping along the roof
dusting up the crumbs of sleep.
Time wiping the slate clean;
tearing out the page
dropping in a new one,
shifting return,
setting cold feet to the floor,
each rhythmic press
blackening the page.

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The mind makes hay

in the slumber of a long afternoon;

the tired old librarian traipsing

to the back to blow off the dust

from a thought long forgotten.

It was summer when you waltzed

through the middle of my life

appearing like a ghost through a wall

and leaving with an urgency

of a thunderstorm that knocks

out the lights.

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In northern Europe on Midsummer's Eve

the day is indiscernible from night

so you sit outside at midnight

with loved ones and people you barely know,

eating strawberries and drinking wine

attempting to conjure the spirits

of future lovers from the pine woods.

Imagine how drunk you'd be there

inhaling air off a mirrored lake,

picture how clear your thoughts would become,

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Time attaches itself to things

turning moments into memory,

until the past and the future

flood the present

so you sit feeling

neither here nor there,

restless in bullying heat,

squinting at white sails

on glittering water

that won’t move when watched.

Rescued only when the blue hills darken

and you open the wine

and watch the gardener

with the stooped ba...

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A bit of a late night experiment so please don't judge too harshly! Back to normal next time...

 ---

The opposite of a poet never stands idly by.

The opposite of a poet always has something to say.

The opposite of a poet loves a good turn of phrase.

The opposite of a poet knows the difference between right and wrong.

The opposite of a poet gets more done ...

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All day long it rained,

the sky pouring down

making a martyr of the garden

and everywhere you looked

someone was shrugging

their shoulders or

bowing their heads,

even the giant alliums

stood like sorrowful saints

with nothing to offer

except the occasional nod

as if to say

I know, I know.

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Little open mouths,

worn out tongues, dirty talkers,

they’ve been talking about you

when you’re not around,

how you’ve been

going this way and that,

scuffing them on street corners,

shuffling through the

warm streets at night

listening to voices from open windows.

Look how worn they’ve  become

these imprints of your time on earth

tired as old leather

lik...

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The swallows are diving

in the light of the evening,

unfurling themselves and

arrowing ceaselessly

into the deepening

reservoir above our heads.

They cry wildly to one another

caught in the sway of their daring

like the boys at Cala Algaiarens

who lept from the crooked rocks

for the gasps of tourists,

their tail ends scissoring

into the bright blue.

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The night my mother died I had no words. It was as if the lights went out. For months nothing came. It was too large and huge I couldn’t write a word and when they did come I couldn’t lay a glove on it. Cliches were dime a dozen. Over the weeks and months I broke it apart. I tried to approach the stillness of that night. The quiet roads enroute to the hospital. The stillness of the critical care u...

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I asked her whether

it was the face

or the body

or as some say might say

the money

but she said,

leaning in real close,

the truth to it all was shoes,

that’s right,

it’s all about the shoes.

No you didn't know it

but you were written

out of this story

before you even finished

walking in. 

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He pauses for a moment

looking up as if suddenly remembering

his mission for being here.

He's frowning,

perhaps I'm frowning too.

We mirror sometimes I know,

that's what people say

but there's something else

in this pale blue light,

he looks like a stranger,

an astral traveller with

with his white suit tightly

fastened up to his chin,

arrived on the shores of...

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Hi all, 

I've put together a collection of poems from the last few years under the theme of night. Seemed a natural theme reading them back as most were written in the small hours. Would love to know anyone's thoughts- 

Night Work collection link

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All night not sleeping

but tossing and turning over

some unfavourable thought

I lie listening to the bones of the house

creak like the inside of a piano.

Who's awake at this hour?

Just the mice rolling their life's luggage

across the attic floor,

running the gauntlet

between the suitcases and heavy coats,

little refugees sailing

their slim luck in the dark.

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