The winds of change are buried,

Cast iron deep beneath the winter’s frozen ground.

There’s little to suggest

That love or marriage,

Or even earthy sex

Could make those rusted wheels go round.

And so he tells her

That he loves her

And marriage is a work of art,

He spoke.

And she answers with a question –

Is this just a fucking joke?


Mr and Mrs Old return from Spain,

Slowing traffic out of Dover.

Scrabbled-out avoiding cold,

Glad that winter now is over.

Home in the sun is a Bayley Pastiche

Pulled by their old silver Rover.


And they’re on the road to the north,

Back to bloody Burnley,

Pension evaporated.

Thank the Almighty

For baby-sitting,

Nappies saturated

Hips to be replaced

Skin cancer to be faced

While the NHS still exists.

Well, it could have been me

In the Winnebago

Trousered biege,

Velcro straps keeping

White Reebok trainers I’d owned

Since the ‘70s on my feet.

My caravanning years were out-sourced:

No Bailey Pastiche for the living dead?

Praise the Lord: I got divorced

God — my caravanasaria

Of dread.


My world is built from fake foam bricks,

Thirty stories high.

Take a breath,

Blow it all away,

You could do if you try.

One last call for the dead? he asks.

A final boarding call;

A dead man

Trying to escape

The cemetery wall.

Build a dream from fake foam bricks

And hang it in the sky

Where lovers breathe


And time unmarked goes by.

Draw a river from your tears,

And paint your love beside it.

Pluck a passing

Cirrus cloud

And try your best to hide it.


In a dream I travelled here before,

But somehow, it is different now;

For all the signposts are confusing.

No more

Can I unlock a door

And travel though from room to room un-noticed.

I spend my Sundays following my past

though colour supplements and cups of coffee.

And, if there were no answers anymore;

No ships to build,

No far off islands to explore;

Then, what what we think,

And what we know is true

May only be

A deja vue.

Care to share?