Untitled

For Angela

Death has come and taken my friend

Not neatly, cleanly with, "Ah Ha! " and a flourish ...

No noble cessation, a bowing-out with a kiss and a flash of Angel-wings.

Like this:

Slowly, painfully. Drifting in and out,

Home and Away

Like that.

Hard.

 

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Breaking Silence

It occurs to me as I hurtle  through the tunnel that it only seems shorter than it did when I was five because the train is going faster. The noises are different too - the rattles and clangs, huffs and whistles of the steam train are gone. I regret this, as the quieter ride forces me to be an unwitting conspirator with the mover and shaker making a deal over his smart phone whilst walking up and down the carriage, 

"I know what Paul would say, "Who's going to pay for it?" "

I feel like using the microphone function on this device to voice, "Listen to Paul!  I don't, of course. 

I have swapped the Priviledge Pass I bore as the dependent of a railwayman, for this journey undertaken so many times,  for a Senior Railcard. Yes, but, as I often say, "I am only old on the outside!" 

There is a cultured elderly couple sitting in front of me. Their accents and educated register give them away. A newspaper rustles and there's some comment about a number of Prime Ministers, some of whom the woman lists from memory. 

"It's on the BBC " the gentleman says, and then, intriguingly goes on to  bemoan the decline in moral standards today, to which the lady responds appreciatively with, "Nobody believes in hell and damnation any more!" 

I am longing to ask what hell has to do with some of our most distinguished Prime Ministers, and even to add a commentary myself, but I am afraid the story might be too mundane, and the intrigue dispelled. 

Reading. 

"No attempt to make it people friendly!" My travelling companion observes. I am now laying a bet with myself. Will she make one kind comment before Paddington? She has twenty-five minutes. I give myself long odds. 

Turning Up For Work: Me and Trump

"Inspiration is for amateurs. Professionals turn up and do a day's work." 

So here I am, a newly-turned  professional poet, showing up for work. Given that it's 12:39 pm, it's hardly a great start, but it's a start. 

The Poet 

I am given to self-parody. Many poets are, you'll find.

So, when I call myself the Coleridge of Culver St, you'll kmow

I am not being serious. 

Though - give me my due - if you're calling Donald Trump a President

It should be easy enough to call ME

A Poet.

Poem: Still Raining

 

 

Still Raining

 

My window looks in on me

Still raining.

OK, I like the rain, apart from it being cold and wet:

Those attributes I am not so fond of.

 

I like it's absence of colour and it's

Complete indifference.

 

The speckles it's makes on the glass and a memory of rain- drop races with Adrian.

 

Then.

 

Now:

 

None of my current crop of children would have the patience to watch a raindrop obey the laws of physics and meander down the pane.

 

I can conjure up excitement and laughter and

Small fingers tracing their favourites. Sometimes I called THAT cheating.

 

When I lost.

 

It's good isn't it? To have a cupboard full of moments. Mine is so crammed they spill out.

 

As for this one: I hold it before it goes. It's January 1st 2017, and right here, right now, I am happy.

 

Even

Though

It's

Still

Raining

 

Happy New Year

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