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 Jun 2015 Anna Jones
Tony Luxton
As we approach time moves faster
her late gate pass wasting away
though we're running through the wet
and waltzing through the traffic spray.

Breathing heavily we arrive
weaving through the pairs of leaving
clustered lusting cuddling couples
whose ardour thrives a five to ten.

My girl guides us to the last tree.
We grin and grapple futilely.

Those sentry lamps that guard the path
a checkpoint no charlie shall pass
then knife-faced Nora rings the bell
consigning men to outer hell.
 Jun 2015 Anna Jones
Tony Luxton
Gold and silver battle *****
torn from swords saddles and crosses
lying beneath a farmer's field
tributes to kings and bellicose gods.

Fierce birds of prey snakes fish and bears
framed in filigree geometry
guarded warriors' savage souls.
No mercy in Mercia.

Archeologists anthropologists
historians librarians
curators and consertvators
collect confer and classify
while I just try to connect.
 Jun 2015 Anna Jones
Tony Luxton
Gone are the glory days of jam butties
when marmalade was shredded gold
and spam pretended to be ham
and plum jam tested for a cold.

The wireless was our window on the world.
The Weekly News and Guardian
gave local news, views and reviews.
Street chatter made stories that much fatter.

That world now reappears to me.
But in it I take no part.
No good, no bad, no clumsy me,
no touch, no sound, no sacred heart-to-heart.
with a cold 'plum jam' = 'plub jab'
 Jun 2015 Anna Jones
Tony Luxton
There's a drawing on my wall
a pen and ink impression
of the old transporter bridge
- a Meccano masterpiece.

It's my Tardis, my time machine,
portal to a vast interior
of vivid early images,
sounds of a rumbling grumbling bogie
pulling me back through time.

The clatter as our boarding gate swings shut,
an alert pause in the varnished cabin.
We listen for the next familiar step,
the creaking **** towards Runcorn Gap,
passing over Aethelfleda's Castle,
the mid-crossing windblown waltzing,
the bustling landing in the other county.
 Jun 2015 Anna Jones
Ruzica Matic
***
I went out after dark again
to smell the flowers in our garden
the sky was whisper-thin
vanilla scented
cherry sour

and you were still inside
my empty empty
butterfly heart

because
as you know
I was never that smart

I hope you find
that silver lining

I hope you still smile
that crooked smile

I hope you discover
that great design

And I

I will be fine
 Jun 2015 Anna Jones
Ruzica Matic
we need a plan
in case of emergencies
and unexpected nightfalls
when the world turns sharp edged
and strange

we need to prepare
for days of pale faces
wet socks
and cold hands

we need to hold each other
and mend each other’s tears
- sowing the untethered buttons back on

we need to let ourselves breathe
when the air is hard to come by
and we need to let go
of stale dreams
that rot away in attic corners
and dusty chests

we need to walk
into the shiny street
wearing nothing
but our best smiles
reserved for Sundays
and first stork nests
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