Posted in Before the Rain


There were no trees, only spindly saplings
thin forks of branches – nursemaid stakes
there were no flower beds and no water features,
just some hopeful shrubs and sun kilned lawns.

The concrete –
still bleached white
yet to feel the graffiti of sun, rain and age.
Butter yellow fence palings
timber mill proud
unsilvered by time,
not made up with paint
nails – bright shining bullet holes – no oxides.

We move through the estate
building fences – gift wrapping just finished homes.
The streets half full, or half empty –
demographic twin, of the metaphorical glass
hopes and dreams fulfilled,
or life sentence.

Washing lines of desoiled babyware
flattering mast pennants
semaphore proclamations of a new generation :
continuation of a dynasty,
this country as home, now.

Romance at its most suburban,
most optimistic
and most dismaying.
Bill said, “ take a look around son …. this is your future.”



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.