I make my way through neon fury
Into a dizzying blur of heads
I think i see mountains in the distance
The darkness hides the concrete mounds from sight
Child imagination
For this night make them those mountains
From the time that your gait was free and your feet tiny

O Immortal night

Turn the gravel
Into the wistful green that cushioned my soles
Turn the amber of my room into a bonfire
let me look upon the city lights from the shelter of my tent

O Immortal night

Let Wodehouse laugh from beside my bed
And turn midnight fury into a wisp of smoke
Douse the embers of the day with the silver juice of the moon
While i rest at the root of the hibiscus that bloomed when i was ten

O immortal night
let me dip my quill and rejoice in the ink of your innocence
for the chatter of voices past fills my cave
from shelves they read out their favourite lines
as Blyton speaks to Shakespeare
and Dahl courts Woolf
their spirits high and their voices low

O immortal night
Let the tooth fairy knock on my door once again
Its been ages since i met her
Let the mystery of the future
Stir my soul
With millions of questions
Blind me with the succour of my faith

O immortal night
Lend me belief
In the sunlight of rhythm
While Belafonte spreads his warmth
Let the oil paints make a marble on my ceiling
And beckon to the stars
I am
Because you are

Naked tree
Infant being
Dew on ancient veins
And all nocturne
Hush

The winter city does not speak
It creaks
It moans
It whispers
Rasping yet calm

From deep within its Immense grey nothing
Of a childlike ******
Oft from the away
Of the deep, dark, warm blooded secrets of a cure

Come now, blizzard
Snow or dust
Infinitesimal and wise
We’ve hung our wounds out

We will rejoice
While we find colour
Burning in your brilliance
Alabaster, gold, honey brown and chestnut
Now we’re all camouflage


The grass is olden, wistful and unkempt
We’ll look through and find each other
Or maybe a passing bird will carry us through
To other realms
Or back to our wombs


Like the echo of steely friction
And the ***** of alpine thorns
Like a thousand needles
From the paraphernalia


Urban nomads play on
Amorphous and obscure
Boldly proclaiming their dissonance



And in its trails
The treacly placid darkness engulfs
the mind
with its Itinerant leftovers
from an infantly battle
It returns
To sleep
To heal
To prepare anew, for a duel
In the Winter City