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,
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,
Thank the Almighty
Hips to be replaced
Skin cancer to be faced
While the NHS still exists.
Well, it could have been me
In the Winnebago
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
FAKE FOAM BRICKS
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
And try your best to hide it.
A LITTLE POEM I WROTE IN 1972 (AGED 15)
In a dream I travelled here before,
But somehow, it is different now;
For all the signposts are confusing.
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.