White foam
temperamental tommorows
One more jour
Seagulls cross paths
The warp of sometimes
and the broken rhythm of shingles
till the dusk answers itself

In the supernatural sphere,
down London Road
cheek by jowl,
the angel of death pontificates.

Beyond its parlor,
the old subterfuge of death,
languishes in this netherworld.

Untouched by conscience.
Our apparition stands by the silver moon,
self-crowned and wearing the also run
upending the praying soul.

The past doctrines of survival,
half barrelled,
speaks its own enormity.

it's nice to walk down Victoria Street
It still feels like an undiscovered part of London
It has a Waterstones bookshop
and an earnest small Waitrose
Yet the Public Library is elsewhere
There's clearly an Architects eye for design here
belatedly re-discovering glass
to compete with the nearby Shard
Around Strutton ground
there used to be a watchmaker
next, it will be the shoe shop
and then book sellers Oxfam
to vacate their properties

Jen, I want to support your platitudes!
your mediation renders,
no troubles from you
no goading, within your star
kindness fashions your heart.

where are our heroes?
their bland bleatings we suffer,
this static turn
on Albion street.
Their illicit Lockdown Party's
burn an incense
in our souls,
our gallant sacrifice thwarted.
This luster flathead etched,
upon hoardes of Townies and ruralites memories

Hydrangeas, dahlias
and Victorian roses,
alongside the urban gardens,
enough to please us.
Blue-eyed Jay,
sings his songs,
at the joy of being alive.
Whisp of air down his lug holes,
praise to Mary the gardener,
to a woman born free.
Counting down this floral beauty
and add to this a creation rich flowerbed

Green is the color from your window
the catalyst to your path
the sheet you dream upon
unwishing time and longitude
that you fled from me

Eyes are my eyes
very soon you will come back
shifting plume
your path backtracking
comes to our betwixt