It is winter, icy night outside the ancient terraced house, crisp
and creeping-cold, the road fleeting and the boisterous,
rejoicing revelers invading my room unseen but well heard,
silky-blacked, silk-backed, slick-backed, on the loudbusybarstriken front street.
The houses are sleeping like the dead (though the dead shan’t wake the morrow, in the deep, frosted earth) or sleeping like snoring Grandma
Passed the creaking stairs, behind the thick wooden door.
The chimneys enjoy a smoke, and the street watching in lazy light.
And the people of the long and aging road are lying, dormant, on hold now.

Be still, the birds are in wait, the office-workers, the budget-blunderers, the dole-wallers and money-splashers, equestrians, assistants, cricketers and coppers, the seller and the sold to, convicts, clergy, scrap-men, soldiers, the wary eyed whistleblowers and bleak spinsters. The elderly lie alone, cold and widowed, falling in love in dreams of those long passed, gramophones serenading them with swinging sounds since forgotten. The bachelors lie not alone but feel it, aside women they met but a moment prior. And the sloothing silhouettes of foxes stalk in the brush, and the fallen leaves clump prickled by the spiking spines of a slumbering hedgehog, and the hens in the clucking coops; and the mice creep across grassy planes playing hide and go seek, darting and ducking, amidst the quiet nightly warzone.

You can hear the frost amassing, and the old homes groaning.
Only your eyes are alive to see the bellowing chimney pots washing the black sky with grey, consuming and spreading, smoke. And you stand alone in hearing the working dogs retort with the sky, the primal yowl, where Jack Russell’s, Bull Terriers, Whippets and Grey Hounds, Fox hounds, Patterdales, Lakelands and Border Terriers take wolven shape and warrant the moon and stars to adjourn.

Heed. It is much too late, or early, the day-break behemoth’s begin to crawl blind through dawn, slumped uniform and jangling key and toast crumbed stubble, golden tie pin and tracksuit top, parted as the red sea, racing rats, inhaling bus fare; openmouthed in Citrone’s, rattled morning news; in Pickwick’s cafe shutters exhale the bleak dark and swallow first light. It is genesis in Chester-Le-Street, coagulating evermore, with breakfast offers stuffed down its throat, passed my frosted window pane, sleet and rain, headphones, lit cigarette, black brew two sugars, lichened grave stones and flashing blue lights. It is break of day amongst the pushers of pencils.

Watch. It is discontent, dragging, alone coursing through a bacon stottie; clinging to a dead end rock, aside the cockles and mussels, to be exhumed by an uncomfortable chair and the computer on the blink.

Is this it. Ask. Is this it.

The winter trees stand unclothed,
branches reaching for each other with woody empathy
craving their lovers touch, naked bodies of passion,
their children lie red and amber,
setting ablaze the verdigris blades,
that hold them kindly,
when their mothers can no longer carry them,
the embrace breaks them down,
allowing their earthy scent to creep to the nostrils of those who come to think a while,
enjoying the fleeting sun on their backs for a time,
on this frosty winter day,

The traffic seems obsolete,
if the whispering birds can learn,
to ignore the engine rumbles as can I,
the obsidian asphalt path carves delicately through this city sanctuary,
like an old english dance,
where courters would not touch their partner,
but embrace the sweet proximity,
and cherish the fire in their beloved's eyes,
and soul.

Water lies abandoned in the path,
reflecting the eternal blue of the afternoon sky,
an embodiment of tranquility,
a connection that can never be consummated,
a longing to be together again,
the water envies the whisp of cloud that has retained the skies clinch,
a ripple destroys the perfect portrayal,
but to give way to two Blue ****,
absorbing its love,
and releasing it to one another,
as they speak to each other,
and elope toward the emerging pearl moon.

I brush my feet amongst the wood chip beds,
mere remnants of once great trees,
still huddling together in solidarity,
as though trying to reform what once was,
it makes me ponder of soul mates lost,
clutching at the memories that once were,
and pursuing to reforge a love that refuses to be broken,
adoration manifest as young sapplings reach upward,
sprouting from the shallow chippings,
ready to blossom with memories once more.

Layer, lick, stick, twist, ignite.
Exhale pungent exploration,
The dark taps at my window,
Beckoning me to join it,
Great snowy mountains broken by the tectonic plates of a Barclays card,
A burning nostril feels like home,
Search, locate, press play, enjoy,
My feet find pavement,
And the pavement finds people,
Great masses of weekend warriors,
Descend on the neon boulevards,
Sour euphoria engulfed with a wince,


Wait, watch, listen, feel,
What is that surging through me,
A storm of electric emotion,
A touch from Zeus himself,
I think the DJ has changed the song,
Or was there ever a DJ to begin with?
Look, touch, embrace, lips lock on my evening Juliette,
Or will she be my Bonnie?
My Iris retreats like a turning tide,
My pupils are the night now,
And we own the night,
For tomorrow will be Sunday,
And we all have responsibilities.

The bay window sits quiet now,
Remembering the drinks rest on its mantle,
Strewn with crawling things and drifting webs,
The sea churns with dismay also,
Spitting salty distaste at the pane,
The seat still bares her stamp,
A small crater of absence where she lingered for a time,
Stands today a bitter reminder of a hand on thigh,
Or a soft kiss on a warm, rosy cheek,
He still comes here,
Riding a torrent of tears to stare at the dent,
An unwashed cardigan gripped like choke hold,
Held to a crooked nose, transport’s him to her laughter,
To a world he is unsure he even wishes to recall,
For he knows he must return,
To his dimly lit bedroom alone and cold.

He never was good at cooking,
Or washing-up as the soup-encrusted pans built up,
The chessboard serves to entice the dust,
And the queen’s lips meandered into a frown,
The knight still sits at D-four,
Awaiting her next move,
Her shampoo grows tired and drowsy,
Blackened by solemn mildew in a shower built for two,
How he longs for just one more game,
Her cunning smile pre-cursing imminent defeat,
As the days crawl onward,
And he sits by the board,
Awaiting her next move,
Her pale freckled hands fading evermore,
A perfect watercolour dripping away from the gallery of his soul,
The more he strains to retain, the faster she fades as a dream does,
Broken by the stench of a shattered heart,
For he knows he must return,
To his dimly lit bedroom alone and cold.