Morning

Lifting her her head slightly, she whispered:
“Do you believe in fate?”
“You mean like, destiny?”
He replied, eyes still closed. “No.”
“Me neither” she smiled
and settled her head back into his chest.

Ladder

Love is not the same as like

You don’t climb the ladder
from like
to love
Love is a different ladder

Some of the rungs are missing

Thought

She’s bothered by how I over-think
everything
I think
Or maybe not

Just to See

He would think about her often
and would wonder
At the little that he knew
and what might be

For he knew he longed to see her
just to kiss her
And he knew he longed to kiss her
just to see

Nothing

Waiting on the world’s end
On the last of days
The Mayan termination
Waiting
But nothing
No sign
Would there even be a sign?
Would there be anything?
Or just nothing
Waiting
Still nothing
Maybe this is it
This nothing
And this perputual waiting
For nothing to begin

Biscuits

I stole some of those bourbon biscuits
From the Premier Inn, Ipswich.
They’re in my cupboard now,
Next to a packet of stale nacho chips,
Waiting for the apocalypse.

Haiku by Carly Simon

You’re so mista’en
I bet you think this poem’s
a haiku

The Pretty Ones

The pretty ones get off at Highgate
And head home, up the hill
To their little terraced houses
Where they sit alone at sash windows
Twirl their hair, sigh and stare
At the world passing by below.

One Year On

Lie in a dark room
With music colouring the walls
And a city humming below

Happy with nothing
Content to speak or not speak
And sleep only a little

Trace a line on skin
To stretch time into the dawn
And repeat

Then see, one year on
Five days will go missing
Lost to happiness

Across the Aisle of the Underground Train

Across the aisle of the underground train
The music begins to stray from her ears
Staggering, weaving, it falls upon me
Not hard, not in anger; it is familiar
I know the peaks, recognise the refrain

And I watch as the corners of her mouth
Curl just so slightly with the sound of it
And her hands clench in some kind of caress
As if perhaps the heat from an old love
Has kindled life anew within her bones

Her smile growing now, as mine must be
She rises slow, rights her skirt and waits
Patient and calm before the doors
And I search for the music one last time
Listening for the traces as she goes

But I find, in her wake, the tune remains
And for a second it seems like a dream
Until my smile lets way to laughter
As the source becomes clear: not her at all
But a man, a few seats down
Across the aisle of the underground train