Wastelands

Canal side moorings and old mills

Stretch their northern roots into the collapsed rubble

Of Industrialised wreckage

Overgrown with harsh grass and weeds

An old man sits at the side of the grey water

And dips a hopeful line into its murky depths

There are parts of old bikes and shopping trolleys

Poking from the surface like Leviathan bones

Paths ...

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Last Orders

I come on Thursday, sit on wooden chair
where poets congregate in strange half light,
sharing their thoughts with those who gather there -
the words are spoken, soaring, shining bright,
warming us as we leave to face the night.
The bear pit darkens, but forever hosts
the rhyming, raging, ranting, Tudor ghosts.

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