Day Two

The motorway is a day beleaguered
by a bloated greedy slob of a sun,
all rolls of heat that flob and slop the skin.

Two trees without a single leaf
like arms reaching from a soily grave,
skin melted into dry bone.

A journey like the space between language and thought:
undefinable and confusing, with an end
that might be a beginning, a long sentence
of road that started with a full stop.

Night One

THE EVENING SKY...

looks like a bubbleless bath running
in a pale grey room under a dead lightbulb
in a house that no-one lives in anymore,
where echoing wind stutters through the air
and the only sound is the water drowning itself.

Summer poems/ Day One

"I need the smell of summer, I need its noises in my ear."

I pretty much hate summer a lot of the time. So logically, the thing to do is to write a poem about summer each day and night. Well, probably more like versified descriptions and babble, but oh well.

On which, here goes number one:

INTERTEXTUALITY

Someone pulls out that old cliché
– doesn’t time pass so quickly –
and like something you know so well you forget,
I remember there’s a reason things become clichéd.
but today feels like the first day of summer
even if we’re about on the second chapter,
and the sun is heavy enough to squash everything.
And maybe in a world that isn’t scripted by May Sinclair,
Harriett Frean’s parents had the right idea.