Posted in Truth


In a camping ground common room
a discussion about recent traumatic events
that bitterly divided our country
riots in the streets. Sport the cause.

A couple recently returned home
a protracted period of international travel
and work as financial alchemists – high flyers.
They giggle conspiratorially
employers have been told their return date is later
having seen the world
they now wish to see their own country.
In the New Year, new responsibilities
he, to the custodian of the nation’s purse
she ,to the protector of its currency.
We laugh at the harmless fraud.

The evening drifted into a new day.
It began when they offered wine
uncommon at the time
only three guests, that night, rude not to.
Not exactly a glass, a plastic mug
We talked ….. and talked
so much in common, especially humour.
A dozen years older – significant at that age, but invisible.
Through the buzz
of goodwill – and untamed alcohol
faint soundings of imperfection.

In the morning
separate ways.
Laughter. They drive off.
he is extremely good-looking – movie star handsome.
she, considerably less than plain
a combination I hadn’t seen before.
Or since.



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.