london rain

the rain makes me angry
and the sun numb.

my one relief: the bus ride home:

where everything has been done
and where you are waiting.

endlessly internalising escape.

at weston park

at weston park,

multiple times

a childhood,

i sat with you

at the

cafeteria.

after

walking the

exhibits by that

poppyseeded

garden.

at weston park,

multiple times

a childhood,

walking up

those stone steps

into

a world

of possibilities,

where pharaohs

met hardened steel.

at weston park,

multiple times

a childhood,

you helped me

when

i was

frightened

by

the bear, the bear

oh the bear

and the

polar bear!

at weston park,

multiple times

a childhood,

always an inspiration

and a grounding.

oh that day we saw

the stargazers

only a distant memory

now.

that day we saw

my first monet,

and i cried.

at weston park,

multiple times

a childhood,

i tasted my future

and it tasted

hard sugar sweet

Julia

i had you, Julia.
i had you, and then

i lost you.

you were a vision, apprising
a mere mortal

like me.

a young woman marking the terrain
of her given reality.

all for you,

the salt-kissed fair ringlets,
the perfect curve of your areola

oh Julia.

you bewitched me with
your hasty enchanted absence

like a stranger.

that night you were there,
by morning, you were gone.

i had you,
i had you, and then

i had lost you.

the familiar

the familiar made unfamiliar
through distance
through
time,
creeping back in to

those fields that flow
to the
valley,
to the
brook.

those trees that know
my past,
those which
i walked
beside

for eighteen long years.
i always
imagined
beyond
the grey skies;

beyond
the green
that seemed
so dull,
always

reaching for the unfamiliar.

recession

Cranes loom over the buildings of Londontown
The grey water reflects the prosperous Southbank
As the morning moves a circuit of cold, dark, mugginess.

The industrious denizens pace foot forward, foot forward,
They move determined towards their destination
Whilst a creeping insecurity lingers within them all.

On the 9th hour, Gordon speaks to the nation
His plan connects global speakers, calms through nationalising,
Except the red, red sun is already rising in the East.

the englishmen

the englishmen

are the loneliest at the bar.
staring into the bottles
or at a newspaper

waiting for something
or someone

who is never going to come.

white guilt

My tutor called it white guilt
The guilt of the white man
My hands are so sticky, with the
Blood of sixty million and more.

But the sixty million is just the

Start

Start of our legacy to the world
My ancestors, the captain on the
Slaver ship, throwing over
Cargo

Whipping children in the fields
Teaching the uncivilized masses
The heathens
The darkies

So much blood on these hands
I shudder at the truth, the hidden
Truth that is not to be found in
Any textbook

Our wonderful country,
The homeland, the fatherland
We invented the concentration camp
So much blood

The sixty million is just the

Beginning.