The fog unrolls itself from hill to tarmac
like winter blinds. It sinks behind hedges
and hovers, hawk-like, over the canal.

A streetlight winks from the path,
muffled by ***** white like a child
smothered in his new winter coat.

The trees have given up for the year
leaving mushy browns and crisp yellows,
sweet damp smell pushed up noses.

Morrison’s is open till ten now.
Piles of pumpkins watch in sorrow,
waiting for homes next to plastic spiders.

I walk tall
I am the final piece
Straps and metal
switch the queen
check mate  
I wear the crown
like thorns
hiss of iron
sickly heat
I am the final piece
Closing door
veil is leather
not my mask
but yours
I am the final piece
The chimney
stench of roast
vessel for your volts
I am the final piece
Charred puppet
dancing feat
I am the final piece
I am the final peace

Archive footage
burns pictures
into today’s film.
Deserted platform
becomes movie still:
Smiles, kisses,
one last embrace,
sadness slipping
across your face.
Then time realigns
leaving just the wind
and a lonely coat
pulled against my skin.

The moon is bright tonight;
my bedroom window faces south.
I wonder if you can see the same moon as me
as it sits in the sky’s wide mouth.

Nine hundred miles of road
and thousands of acres of stars.
Somewhere, you’re sleeping on your own,
unaware of my voice in the dark.

Sweaty shuffle, gloved hands
light fuse, twitching in countdown
until heels spark trigger,
cannons drumming grass

driven by bellows,
magnesium snort
in wind-whipped ears

until gunshot
snap:

shell bursts,
shattered tendons
man falling into dust

while fragments *****
burning air, tearing turf
as cheers become screams,
awaiting another bullet.

I sat on a wall next to you
with cold bricks sinking through jeans,
guitar wrapped in my arms
like a kitten, wooden body warm
in afternoon sun.  You asked
“What can you play?”
so I picked out Spanish Romance
on blunt-knife strings with fingertips.  
There were no words, just notes
which chuckled up and down the frets
like blackbirds.  Rain pattered
on wood in domino spots,
cooled my face like your hands.  
You wanted me to sing
Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door
and people peered out
from under umbrellas
like cats looking through letter boxes .
You took off your hoody
to drape around my shoulders –  
“You’re beautiful when you sing.”
My cheeks warmed the raindrops.

The sky lies on the horizon
like a smoke-coloured cat
draped over a sofa of heather,
purple as pansies but sharper,
scratching against boots and paws.
It washes across the landscape
in a swathe of paint,
broken by breadcrumb rocks.

Up here, the wind gallops,
almost spins me round
to face home again.
Water framed by narrow paths
like battlements, flicking
onto grey stones and sand,
smell of earth, damp air.

Our path drops down
like the side of a ship and the dog,
ginger beacon in a sea of bog-grass,
skids on his front paws.
I shuffle sideways, crab steps
slipping from mud to puddle.