We were expected

We were expected earlier than the rain.

The swollen river had snatched the bridge,

crawled a yard out every time the

church bells rang. We hurried and hurried.

We washed up a month later downstream

when the brambles let us go, at last,

when we no longer were expected.

 

Waiting for the train

They were all poised to board the train

platformed, tweed-and-silk couples

with eager tickets and febrile voices

paper-ribboned among the common,

which even the back-from-debauchery

Saturday bunch couldn't outsmart

and from the three-pieced to the bow-tied

a thirsty dog licking the condensation off

their last-minute, soda-filled plastic bags.

 

Brute

This brute of a world this

relentless beast on the prowl

or so it seems to us

who bow down, one knee

on the ground and the hair

raised like briar on

the nape of their neck.

We don't believe in fate we

thought we would be safe

but we weren't we

couldn't for we 'drew breath'.

To us patient observers the

brute never ceases to pounce

every piece of beauty

to maul to shreds all

of what brought us joy

knowing doom was spelt within.

Wrought-iron wrench in the works

that's what the brute does

and is, and if for a moment

we fancied fighting back

we had sooner wished we had died

when last we slashed our veins

because this brute of a world this

 

outspoken

I was told to be out-spoken

but how can I be when

so often I've been spoken out

out of the playground

out off the bus

not a sound, never one sound

taken out to avoid the fuss

how can I be when

I'm so soft-spoken

never one word above the other

never have I given

anyone the f- word

or the n- word, even

when I was down-trodden

and I never bother

I just want to have fun

but people hold on

they hold it up against you

like you have to be outspoken

or they'll tread on you

they make a hell

out of a possible heaven

and you can tell

it's such a burden,

such a burden

speak up, speak out

step up or step out

I guess I'm more in-spoken

perhaps I'm broken

but I pay attention

I'm not a bespoke human

but I like to be spoken to

even though it doesn't show

even though between me and you

I prefer to be alone

and be unspoken

biding my puns

honing my lines

because let's face it

when it comes to words

I have more grit

and more guts

than all of you cowards

 

The Road

The crack on the windscreen

slithering mountain ridges

against the setting sun

occasional splinters of light

when slightly tilted

levelling with the horizon

the blue pine tree orbiting

across the tracks

dancing to a music of its own

three stickers bleached

on the sprinkled dashboard

those you find on apples

the collector's pride

soon night will fall

that seemingly endless tunnel

no star to be seen

as it is storms season

redoubling the attention

right side window

refusing to budge

let old rain carve trails

on the expoxied trim panel

soon a dashlit, intent face

and another, flickering with sleep

in streetlamp intervals

seeming impervious

to the inbetweenness

the there and there moment

and yet, and yet, some form

of flitting magic is happening

in that such-a-deal rented car

hurtling through the night