The Workers

The workers are gathering
In pubs behind shop fronts
Checked carpet and wood
Period lights getting brighter

The great minds of a generation
Clearing empty glasses from tables
Refining critiques of each other
Point making, missing the floor

In the corner, squinting clarity
Dilation beyond the intentional half
And the world offering itself up
Clear and manageable as not before

By the window, lives they could have lived
With more spirit and belief
And beauty their eyes tell them about
Before they disown their own feelings

Sleep gratified, they wake disgusted
Shouting inward to empty space
Frowning at those who hide
In youth or possibility

The full consideration

Of morning burning heads
No point, in change they see
Paying money to feel free

Pavement Walls

The place you know from crime statistics
That you never come to see
I’ve never met you here
You never fill my empty concrete afternoons

I’d take your shock or your fear

I’d take your knowing, I’m better, look
If you’d take me out
Break me out from pavement walls

Some Regret

Time is moving, still
Around comfort and corners
The bloom of well kept flowers
Will come again, be patient
Buds in beds, moving soil
Close enough to buildings
Missing the sky

Through the brick, lives
Bare homes and neat toys
Stacked, waiting for play
A mother clutching book bags
Lunchboxes and small hands
Trying to slip away, a father
Left before the light

Weekend, duty arrives
The pleasantness of parks
Branded buggies and empty art
He cannot buy the sun but tries
A wave without a smile
Jealous blotches, a loving hate
A regretful son before his rise

Best Day

The day before May
Flowers are promised
Family ties tied
And the scream of youth

All that was never
Done the night before
A table joke, fizzy wine
And finger food

A bad disco and
The happiest couple
Dancing in cheap light
Tight white and Monday's suit

Misery with sparkling
Confetti hearts
A table from happy
Six seats from doubt

A click and tired smiles
Crying memories of when
An acknowledgement of who
I do

Sea Change

Waiting for the sea
To change itself
To sort the grains
To leave them bare
For another day
of feathered birds
and bare chests

Greeting

The evening station
A shining floor
Lights are branded
Christmas sparkle

A smart drunk
Stumbles through rush
Hour workers
Stepping sideways, home

Hidden misery
In their way
Forced wool, decoration
A glam tree

You leave late
Trains, part gloom
And gatherings
with gifts

Reunion, parts of
a greeting, then gone,
Your mind moving
Through the night

Whitby Man

The year has gone
Cold fronts and outsiders
Blown back with time
In the front bar
A man who went to sea
With dark mild and distain

Outside, an empty fullness
Buoys and breakwater
Ladders of wood below wood
Crab pots and cold, flashing light
Piled stones before sea
And a tide he watches in or out

Inside a view of abbey walls
No one has come to look
But he listens still
All beard and blood vessels
For the echoed, distant laughter
Of those who never see the sea