Sunday, 24 April 2016
I live in a room, with black text scrawled
On ink-stained pages: typescripts piled
Ceiling-high, I live among notebooks and notes.
I have cabinets of ill-assorted documents,
Drawings sketching roads from there to here:
Roads well-trodden, followed for safety,
And those less-travelled, never taken.
But not for the want of deliberation.
Sunday, 17 April 2016
What falls out of the sky was neither rain
Nor mercy: cold faces set hard
Against transgression only mirror it.
True victims are dead and buried,
But we take their status on till,
Like a sickness inside the family,
It rubs along with grief.
In the street, cold tranquility, traffic,
Yellow lines and wind from the east.
The hospital grounds lie green,
I remember, and the blossom,
Such as it is, pale red;
Too early in the season for warmth
With the vigorous chill of a sea-wind blowing.