Friday, 10 February 2017


A revised poem this post. You can read the original draft here.
Thanks go to Paul Mortimer for assistance with the revision. 
I think the poem is has a clarity that it lacked previously.

He carried a torch for me
far longer than was healthy.
I knew this by the cards,
and the telephone's pleading cry in the night
eventually I did not answer.

Forty years would pass before I watched
his father cross Bold Street,
and I saw the man he had grown into.
Seated in the anonymous window
of a nameless tea-house,
I hid beneath the sun
that sucked the light from his hand
I did not rush outside,
nor did I think of him again.
It has no basis in reality. The ideas had been swimming about in my head for some time and they came together on the page.
I have been listening to Tracey Thorne's first solo lp a lot recently. Here's EBTG.
Here's Plain Sailing.
Until next time.

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