summer nights 1950s

curtains hang lifeless

awaiting breeze that does not come

whippoorwill sings 

hot and sweaty song 

it doesn’t feel like singing

boy hears whistle’s blast 

of a night train 

slowly crawling its way

through the country side

breaking the silence at each crossing

ambulance sirens scream

through hot night air

transporting wounded

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Veering through Northern valleys
Nocturnal nomad chasing lights
Squinting through misty glass at
Solitude
Rural black
Hills rising raucously
Perfidious silhouettes whispering
Shadows looming
GPS. Reroute. M1. 
Settings were fucked - avoid motorways? 
No wonder

Back to the linear path
Diving towards the sprawling metropolis
Hours to go.
Adjusting frequencies -
The Wind Cries Mary.
...

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Once it was a time that glowed:

turned-up collar, hurrying through glistening, early 60s streets.

A kind of muddling, room at Odsal Top,

or summat like that;

steam train always whistling in the distance

Dashing for the bus; overcoats,

shopping bags, windows steamed up,

conductor breathless.

Running the last yards from the corner,

hammering at the ...

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