(20 minute poetry)

forecast gloom.

Where on earth could it be
I wonder if it's at sea
the Sandettie light vessel automatic (a somewhat dramatic name for a flame)
always does that to me,
a thousand winding stairs
that nobody cares to climb
I wonder where on earth it could be
I wonder all the time.

back to some present
and presence of mine
back to the grind on
the underground line.

which is
quite pleasantly quiet on
this crisp early morn.

but there's always one who
chatters in and on the
spaces, down two places
neatly seated,
from Harlow, (new town)
by his own admission.

I expect he escaped the
Essex Sun
got on his horse
loaded his gun and
shot off down to London Town.

I meet strangers strangling looks
reading fairy tales
electric books
and treat them all with
kid gloves

it's better to be safe than worry
so
I hurry myself on.