There were flags, and a few maps.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

A soldier and wife, with haggard look.

The convict, and boy with violin.

The river’s level drifting breadth began.

Things moved. I sat back, staring at my boots.

For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

Letters of thanks, letters from banks.

And for that minute a blackbird sang.

...

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The walls of life are closing in;

her world reduced to one room

covered in pictures that sometimes

jog memories, but more often

questions, like: ‘Who is that man?

I don’t know him.’

                      ‘That’s Dad, Mum.’

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Hotel in a stranded coastal town.

Locals are trained in evacuation;

TV station's webcam is watching,

awaiting the volcano.

                      The volcano is overdue.

                      The tour guide does not mention this.

Alien terrain stretches to the horizon,

moss-cushioned lava, misshapen limbs,

battlefield of broken trolls. Deserts

of black s...

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In the subway they’re cleaning the graffiti;

new mural with torch / jubilee theme.

Railway bridges receive fresh coats of paint.

Down-at-heel England attempting to gleam.  

The schoolkids have made willow sculptures

of cyclists leading the way. At the park

where teenagers drink wine all night,

the beer tent is open all day.

The Olympics are coming to ...

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Attend the church summer fete;

tombola and a silver band,

lucky dip and discarded books.

Bike along the restored canal.

Nurture your own, make do and mend;

hark again to the vinyl.

Sell the car, return to Scarborough,

watch cricket on the green, 

Wander aimlessly in the garden

as leaves swirl about in the wind.

For all the money is gone;

life won't be the same...

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Two ladies, late eighties: one flicking

the pages of Majesty magazine

to pass the time, but still a believer;

the other preparing to sail down

the Thames in a royal barge. 

Yachts, palaces, castles, state visits,

breakfast cereal in Tupperware cartons.

Happy holidays in the Isles of Scilly,

bereavement, confusion, incontinence.

One paid her care home fees by se...

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I never really knew my mother’s father.

All I remember: tuft of nostril hair,

spied from sitting on his knee; and a hoard

of half-hidden threepenny pieces

slipped into a sandpit outside the lido.

In pictures he looks a kind, fair man.

Worked for his only firm from 16 to 61.

Received a wedding cruet set in 1922,

inscribed "from members and friends" at ...

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The worst of the front was that trickle of rain

down the neck. Wet through, it felt like liberation.

And lice. Home on leave, people shunned him in trains.

Walled, hilltop village of his childhood:

as another war came, he returned to Barga.

Saw himself as immobile, a tree spreading roots.

When the Germans briefly retook his village

one self-portrait was damaged. The ...

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