I’ve heard the pram, once prominent
as a fountain, is now spurting forth
at regular intervals, blowing its top
like a drunken whale, emerging at night

as the willows lean in to listen – such
learned trees. Murmurs of mattresses
shifting like sandbanks, carrying dead
dogs to the edge, clearing its depths.

All rumours of course; today strolling
past the bandstand with no band, I see
the willows idle, strumming the surface;
a lone fisherman with a net-full of beer.

Listen

ferments; rendering silent the yapping kids and laughing
dogs, a point where a seagull’s screech can deafen.

It’s beyond the lug-holed vestiges, the seaweed-strewn
remnants. It’s beyond the Sally Mae; the barnacled boat

come ship come stranded dream.

It’s in a place between life and a tragic death you’d read
about in a local rag:

“Father and son drowned whilst digging for China”

It’s a point of reluctant return. From there, the factories
are cloud makers, the roof-tops; snowy mountain peaks.

It’s a place to revisit, with a sturdier spade.

Listen

Seagulls dotted here and there
like points on a map you may wish to visit.
This is my small world.

Ships upon the horizon, carrying their poison.
In sight, in mind, out of reach.

Two fortresses stand, as they’ve always stood, in defiance.
Hulking, rusting, tempting me always
the weather is their enemy now.

When people arrive, tranquillity dies,
so I observe them.

Old people with their complaints
their dogs and their memories,
Seated on the benches behind the wave break,
longing to be drowned by the youthful exuberance below.

Brash gaggles of families armed with seaside propaganda
ruin my view.

I’ll come back tonight, and the stars will write for me.

Listen

Listen

Listen

Beyond the distant hedgerow, blurred
by the pink sunlight, I caught for a brief
moment a still grey ghost
shadowed in God’s candlelight.

Listen

Listen