The same quiet air of resigned and damned despair

that lives in cabbage water steeping,

resides in Harrogate, North Yorkshire

in teabags gently stewing

and a: Gosh! Isn’t this pleasant

Oh, this is far from bleeding pleasant;

this is death that’s not arrived yet

this is dreams that weren’t worthwhile.

 

A shaft of hopeful sunlight on an uninspired graffito

on a tower block of empty grey,

lifts the day – exalts it –

to drop it to its doom

far from the neon glow of Vegas;

out of the range of radiation

shambles trudge with groceries laden

where dragons and maidens are no more.

 

Those days of yore, as if by dint of their very name

weren’t mine, mine weren’t worth keeping

but neither will be those later steps

when all the possibilities

normalize slowly down to one

and every possibility looks grim

and unattractive, but even now

I’m not excited by “possible” anymore.

 

Waking early to wring the weary best of the day,

stumbling on love in the loneliest places;

casting its shadows to dark places

never to darken my solitary door.

The future looks bleak, the past – disastrous,  

the present (be it only for the winking of an instant)

is brilliant and couldn’t be better,

where dragons and maidens are no more.