Posted in Antarctica


High above the river
gorse fraudulently beautiful in the robes of flower
rushes down to the water
like children escaping the classroom.

Overhead a bold sun
welcome and unshielded
as it always was before melanoma
watercolour blue sky
infinitely empty.
Vacant – the vacancy of escaped dreams.

Silence is illusion
attention can hear
seed burst
breeze couriered bee murmurings.
A low growl….. a mating call
a freight train greets its siding date.

Distance shrinks diesel smokestacks to childhood memory
clockwork replica orbiting English villages
moulded perfection
vicarious participation
engines, signals, stations. Innocence.

Consummation complete, the trains separate
one becomes two  –  then none.
The chapter is finished, the sun moves
so must I.

Mornings are for cleaning, afternoons receiving guests
this is how I spend my exile
menial work
low pay.
Here there are no questions – this town knows refugees
false documentation is passed without scrutiny.

For the story behind a story click Backstage



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.

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