Arms wave like water twitching in a cooling kettle

Ravens hover around the side of the graveyard wondering

if Nigel will believe himself tonight

 

Preambulation - that coffee break before the medics set off.

 

Sitting in solitude on a train because the buses are on strike

Interlinked characters in the wardrobe

Trapped in their own heads the digitised claw

at the high walled garden.

 

Passing through the trains between different lifetimes

The sound of the world re-arranging has a furious cold grief

 

Mirrors to signal this is hell

 

Pen in hand, faces pressed against the window

like mirrors building a team waiting for the bus home

 

Sailors pray for a star-guided night, now that the lighthouse

is drowned in vantablack water

 

Stranded in the siding of a new darkness,

a Piccadilly for new journeys from old blackened towns of lost hopes,

and the joy is divided into broken dreams.

 

Hear my call six feet down in the cold snow

 

Southern Tales of Violet Echoes I think I would prefer

as the title for the new Lana Del Rey album

 

The pigeons are alarmed

Discount Mondrian on the wall, orbiting moth, curious pigeons

Two pigeons stand on the edge of time and wonder

how to navigate their way home.

 

Standing at the bus stop thinking Pigeons should be

the theme for Write Out Loud Stockport next month

Pepperoni pizza with a side order of pigeon.