Not Your Dog

The children go inside to play,
For all the streets must empty.
Somewhere, a dog is barking,
But not your dog.

The clouds will close the day,
For all the Suns should rest.
Somewhere, a dog is running,
But not your dog.

The winds will quiet, stop,
Make all the whistles cease.
Somewhere, a dog is whining,
But not your dog.

The cars must be brought in,
For all the roads should calm.
Somewhere, a dog is lapping,
But not your dog.

The moon will pale tonight,
For all the stars should shy.
Somewhere, a dog is howling,
But not your dog.

The trains pull into stations,
Conductors all have beds.
Somewhere, a dog is sleeping,
But not your dog.

The cartoons all have dogs,
For children love them so.
Some tales have dogs that never die,
But not your dog.

An Elegy for Rupert Brooke

We lost you, just outside the Hellespont,
Aegean waves your only mourning veil,
Even until your fever found you frail
Within your holy cabin, or your want 
Of foreign fields, to give to us. Now come,
Ilium fell, and all the boys that died 
As victims of a careless, boastful pride 
Can sleep in peace; their Trojan war is done. 

In Skyros’ soil, we’ll find your richer dust,
Though all hopes for concealment burnt away
In the impersonal mythology. 
To us, you always shall in grief be lost,
But guiding, you will always be to me,
A wayward star adrift in foreign skies. 

Ode to the Moon

A lonely Friday once again
Had found me staring, as I do,
Towards the sky. It’s wonders still
Unknown to me, for all the talk
Of distant watchers, vigilant,
Astronomers and mapping men. 

They tell me the twinkling stars
Are burning out, and even now
Are likely gone. So we attend
This great celestial funeral,
Mournfully wrapped in the black 
Of quiet night and endless space. 

My only constant, the eye of night,
Can give me solace, in amongst 
The frenzy of eternity. 
To know the same distant face 
Was loved by heroes, dead and gone,
Will keep me warm on Friday nights. 

The dry smell of cigarette smoke

The dry smell of cigarette smoke 
Has always pleased me. 
Like a tobacco blanket or 
Nicotine hot water bottle, 
The faint must, has kept me calm. 

Curling up between the rays of light
Cautiously poking out from curtains,
Wanders the angel-headed air,
And where many see cloaked killers,
My oldest friend walks. 

And though I’ll never put one 
Between my lips again, I promise
I won’t complain when you do. 
Because every time I see you do so,
It takes me back to better days. 

Ode To The Evening

The anxious silk of twilight strings and sheets, 
Weaves in between our flaring bursts of light 
And set as veils to marry day to night, 
In quiet hours where love and lonely meet. 

Open Letters II

Father, 

Remember once you said to me, 
And looking back, I hope that it
Was just a joke, at least I pray,
Somewhere between a beer and football game, 
“There’s nothing that I have to show 
For all my life.” And swigged away. 
I sort of hope it was the drink 
Or twilight talking, but the single cap
Of Grolsch betrayed the truth in that. 

Alone, we sat together there.
The years have passed, and even then 
I would protest to all you said 
And pointed at the sons who live 
For nothing but to make you proud,
Or all the work you’ve laboured on,
And never mind the family ties
As solid as the rivers bound to earth,
Even today I stand by what 
I didn’t say but always mean. 

I must reject your statement. Worth 
Is valued not in mass of land,
But who is crowded by your bed 
When finally your breathing ends. 
So please, if ever comes the day
Again when you would say those words,
Just think of us, your sons, and know
No greater lie was ever told of you. 

God bless. 

Thoughts From Russia

I heard St Petersburg cry that day. 
Watched raindrops fall in oceans from the sky,
Bursting seems of rivers that ran like ribbons 
Between cobalt bulwarks, under dusty bridges. 
We stood, arms entwined and heads bowed, 
Like angles bound to Lucifer. 
And while you pressed yourself against me, 
Whispering “we’ll never be alone,”
I watched the Neva flow over cobbles,
And heard the cries of aphids in flower beds,
But you swore you just heard fish rejoicing.  

  
•••

You clipped the padlock shut, 
And let the Moskva streams
Swallow the key for you. 

Behind St Basil’s doors
We thought we’d heard the chants
To ‘On The Morum Path’.

I still retrace the steps 
We took in snowy drifts
Downtown, beside the trees. 

I always pause at ours,
That padlock bound to steel
Branches, but now, but now,

The anger found between 
Our words could break apart 
This heart-shaped lock with ease.  

  
•••

Stand below Lenin,
Look at revolution’s hands,
Pointing at what now? 

  

One Morning In Kent

I woke up to seagulls and distant crashing,
The lapping waves against a tired seafront
Calling out to me, rising up and drawing back 
Like a forefinger begging me forward. 

The gulls, drifting lazily on morning sea-sprayed wind,
Beckoned. “Come, come,” their incessant demands
Echoing like ambulance sirens rushed past
Traffic-bound cars. Maybe I’ll follow one day. 

Open Letters I

 Mother, 

I write to you today 
To tell you of myself. 
I’m drifting out amongst 
The wreck of wasted youth. 
You see, my time was spent 
In unlit rooms, and there 
I made myself become 
A spectre of the boy 
You loved. When sunlight danced 
Between the leaves of trees, 
Still making art on lawns, 
I watched it there, inside. 

Somewhere between the boy and man, 
I lost myself, and found instead 
A beast of absent gratitude. 
If sitting by the window sill,
And turning hands on numbered faces 
Would chase back clouds from where they came, 
I’d while away a million days, 
And lose myself again, in vain. 

It seems to me the mark of man
Appears to be regret of younger days. 

I’m sorry for the way we have become. 

Yours, 

Your son.

The Lonely Ones

Atop the hill, where still we witness suns 

In dying throes, he stands, regarding not

A bruising sky, a fracture of ink blots,

But casting down his eyes to quiet towns. 

As shadows lengthen, dragging out themselves 

Across this swaying grass, the windows flare,

Defiant rage against a dying glare,

He wonders of what stories lights could tell. 

In bedrooms, lying under duvet sheets, 

Their nightly promises are made again, 

And hidden there, behind the curtain frames, 

The lonely ones, together, drift to sleep.