Round Midnight

It is the unexpected life raft of Jack Vettriano -
into which I gratefully climb this afternoon-
and wring the monotony of the hour
from my saturated self.

She is sitting on the edge of the bed,
in the darkness, her back turned,
soft gas light exposing, warming and enriching
the flesh of her arms, shoulders and back.

The full curvature of her waist and hips,
accentuated and magnified
by the shimmering fearful complexity
of her lingerie.

He is backlit by a cold moon,
framed by the leaded rectangles of the window.
A dapper, double-breasted silhouette
of masculine anonymity.

I feel my flesh and bones melt to oil.
A somewhat muted shade I think.
I penetrate the glass
and take my place on the canvass.

I become the arrow splitting the heart,
tattooed low on her hip.

My unseen portrait stares out from his wallet
as he fumbles inside.

Or maybe I am their warm breath,
becoming tiny beads of dew,
forming on the inside of the window pane.

No. I am that thin thread vein capillary
of platinum cigarette smoke,
that rises from her hand into the air
like the fading scent of her perfume.

Level Crossing

Impatient, fuming lines converge
needlessly it would seem.
Each trunk lovingly coiled
around the tail of the beast ahead.

The silky sheen of a blackbird
tunnels under the barrier,
ticking over the tracks
like a mindless mechanical toy.

A jogger – all aspiration and perspiration-
simmers at the gate.
Steaming like a thoroughbred
before the first fence.

Yet the train which serves only cups of ageing,
from which we cannot alight.
Hurtles to a station
were all services terminate.

It calls at Joy, Grief and Love.
Where the first time traveller
nervously shuffles
from foot to foot.

But a fist gripping a hard iron lever
in a white lapboard shed,
raises the rails skyward
to a precarious vertical plane.

Tee Off Times

Golf is a good walk spoiled.

Winston Churchill


It was such an electric morning
that it had must have risen
before first light,
took a solitary swim in a chilled pool,
then showered and dressed in the scent of pines,
and was now feeling exhilarated.

It was a triple distilled
icy plunge of a morning.
Pure and purifying.
A fragile crust of frost
brittled each blade and spear of grass.

The pale blue sky soared
and rolled overhead
with the arctic freshness
of lime citrus vodka
tumbling over ice in a glass.

We sensed each bird and insect –
all of evolution maybe –
was afraid to exhale for fear of disturbing
the still vibration of the air.
A rare vintage only we could taste.

But we did not take for granted
the innumerable elements that had convened
and cooperated in that place
with such synchronicity
to create such a day.

We knew we were merely two grains of salt
spinning in the perfectly balanced flavours
in this dish.
He and I were but two teeth
in a collection of cogs and gears
turning together,
with immaculate timing, balance, precision

Waiting in the Car With Lowry

Whilst sitting in the car park today
of the local supermarket,
I began to feel something
of what Lowry must have felt
as he sat in the Mancunian chill,
pencil and pad desparately trying
to capture everyday life
in the steel trap of its pages.

And the he was there with me,
sitting in the passenger seat.
His cloth cap was pulled low,
spindly legs jammed against my dash,
sketch book and pencil poised.

But he tucked his pencil behind his ear,
pushed his pad into the inside pocket
of his greatcoat.
He folded his arms in a gesture of refusal.

Where are the chimneys of labour,
their grey smoke struggling
into a smog choked sky? He asked.
I paint the ties that bind people
but they avoid each other with hoods
and deliberate noise, he says.

And at that point I realised
that I had – moments earlier
- felt nothing of his appreciation
of such scenes.

I watched him walk away.
A stooping question mark of man,
in a world that had forgotten the answer.

The View From My Armchair

In the late afternoon
winter sun fading in the street outside,
I recline in the plush arms of new leather.

My daughter, two years old, barely three feet high,
has for the first time adopted that classic
“child watching TV” position.

Yes she is lying on her front
propped up on her elbows,
her feet slowly kicking up and down
alternately in the air.

Later she begins to shift
between this and kneeling.
Her feet tucked neatly under her
forming the perfect cushion.

As she chatters away to the friendly
foam and latex clad actors
that dance across the screen,
I ask if she would like to sit on my lap.
We could snuggle down,
watch together I suggest – maybe sing along?

But politely she refuses.
Not for her the sensibilities of adult sitting.
The imagination confining furniture.

She just returns to her prone position
and as the next song begins
she giggles like a jelly.

Friday Night

Tonight I stand shaving before
the giant reflection of myself.
The parallel lines of the blade
cutting across the blank whiteness,
revealing another me.

A glittering snowfall appears in the glass,
penetrated by the plow.
Deep in roads and clear pure tracks
that uncover the surface below.

And the foamy white crests of oceanic pollution,
that cover this sea are raked and cleared
by the toothed head of the dredging rake.

The blade removes, reveals
and leaves no trace.
Just as the sculpture is released by simple tools
from a mass of cragged stone.

Points of No Return

As the light pushes its way around the blinds today
I hear the executioner’s key
unlocking the door of the cell
of the condemned man, as the
clock strikes the hour.
It propels a white, dimpled golf ball
over the highest part of the break
now off the leash, free to silence your round.
A hush that is ended when you stand up
to make your address,
steel spoon ringing the glass, your loud and deliberate cough
all piercing eyes on you.
The penetrating scratch of the anaesthetist’s needle
as it prepares to deposit its load.
That point where you realise that no matter
how hard you stand on the pedal,
you are going to hit the car in front.
And the hard slam of realisation, when flying at 30,000 feet
that the emergency services are not coming.
Neither can you hold your breath forever at the top of the thrill ride
because like it or not - you are going down.
And with the sun now throwing shadows onto the bed,
another page has turned, another day has begun.