No trains, quatrains, query no more this timetable
But the gallery awaits
Crowned by polystyrene the green picket fence curves away
The scratches of bored love paint forms unhindered by ambitions,
And the sheer unpoetic beauty of a giant articulated lorry parked on a derelict terrace reticulates any attempt at understanding.
This granular grows through the logic like frozen water through a peach and renders it exquisite
And the pleasure of sensation without critique blesses the moment.
At this, Birkenhead North gives an opening.
At this the delicious flavour of the small undefined aesthetic runs pure like a thirst.
And everyone stays away.
And I like it that way.
One open world
With hope no currency for those in the birch wood.
A war in town, with wide knees blocking any way through
With clouds and jetstreams the only sign of another way.
Brown brick buttoned up fascias
And satellites of satellites of satellites
Believing in nothing but sky
Above us only sky.
Touched by distance
As small as a crack in an A road
With all geography relative, and all relatives still too far away.
But home is home
And spires dip before the sea
And sires three children
A trilogy of genetic joy
With every song sung with a resonant note
And every tune a canto of praise to the gift of life.
Lime Street is a terminus
Who could live on a through route ?
A little bit of grit in your eye
Too many people, too many stones
Too much construction
Not enough known
I crossed this river today
Just like all the others
I sweated in dampened clothes
While sitting in my syringe
Disgorged into light
The sparkle turned to grey
The tarmac turned to runway
As life landed on this day.
A whale called Benbecula
I stood and looked and there was nothing there.
A city, a sea,
a tall stone that seemed to be dusted on either side
with dust that no longer moved.
Lime-green grey fringed lichen
clung like love to a finely wrought stoneface
While a gentle lap, a slap
welcomed me in rather than turned me away.
A slight lifting sun
that made me,
that made me
stand and look.
The bridge busy with sheep doing nothing,
with the natural so unnatural,
so unknown to mine
a purpose not known.
A steel blue stream that denied the hill,
that illustrated all science in a minor key
and with a major palette.
Over the hill was a town
and less than this it could never be.
But lower and closer
as a life stopped and held in check
for a beat longer than mystery.
And at the end
One lump and a large shadow
sliding into the distant sea.
A silent foam like confetti
blown across a light grey shadow
that in time would be gone,
but for now was for always.
And distantly a whale called Benbecula slept
and shielded us from the nowhere
and the merely normal.