Blame it on a family feud,
Or the funeral of a man you knew.

Blame it on your strange childhood,
Or the lack of proper food.

Blame it on the wind outside,
Or how you need to feel alive.

Blame it on your last girlfriend,
Or your mother's email thread.

Blame it on the lack of sleep,
Or the ***** you drank last week.

Blame it on the guys at work,
Or the girls who look and smirk.

Blame it on the industry,
Or the drugs you're offered free.

Blame it on the clothes you wear,
Or the balding of your hair.

Blame it on your wasted youth,
Or the constant search for truth.

Blame it on the way she sees,
Or how she shouts when angry.

Remember when you sense the blame,
Defend the honour of your name.

An action caused by outside force,
Should now form your discourse.

Words that flow so easily,
'Never, love, not me.'

Rest your head on the shores,
Of the isle where the sun always pours.
Run your fingers through the waters
It is clean and cools and nourishes.
Sleep upon the perfect curves of the land,
Have a dream like never before.
The soil here is rich and void of drought.
Eat like a king, but never grow fat.
A storm can come, like any place,
But it will pass before the rain soaks your skin.
It is only there to quench the fields for your stay.
Lay your foundations with haste.
Build your home in this paradise.
Islands like this won't be found again.
Look forward to your life,
And your generations to come,
Because you have arrived, my child.

My father’s watch,
I notice stopped.
His movement ceased
to turn the cogs,
that spin the gears,
which move the dials,
that give the promise
of a while.
 
The watch now mine,
but still it’s stopped.
It sits inside a precious box.
The frozen hands,
my father still,
his whispered breath,
his secrets kept.
Regret, regret.
 
One day ready
to wear that watch,
I’ll move the gears,
start time again,
in good knowing
the hour I’m stood
will come to be,
eventually.

Passing ransacked umbrella stands,
grasping newspaper with their hands.
Holding shelter above their heads;
sloshing through tar riverbeds.

Hailing taxis from the pale;
the diesel saviours from the hail.
Wading through the flowing street,
committed to their client meet.

London converted to a wet-room,
The Shard engulfed by humid gloom.
Meetings start with sweaty handshakes;
small talk steams as some run late.

Returning home to tiny flats,
they open up the door out back,
to sit on decks and regroup,
but the garden slugs have staged a coup.

London mourns suede shoes:
ten thousand pairs lost in June.
Today the weather won again,
we must prepare for war,  good men!

But sleep well, beloved city,
for tomorrow will take pity;
the weather programme on TV,
said, “Mostly sunny, highs of twenty-three.”

Pollen scented halos
float on tin music
played from under
pop-up gazebos
(providing insurance
against dark clouds
blotting the horizon).
Light dims and glares
as the sun plays peek-a-boo
with infants running
to no end.

Pram junkyards,
picnic islands;
the territories of the
green and daisy-dotted land.
***** thumped with bass notes
in wrong directions;
dads run after toe-poked
spheres into the road.
Trees watch from the edges;
a shallow forest leading
to suburbia, where the *****,
gazebos, children are stored.

Dogs. Oh, the dogs.
This is their land, of course.
They make the rules
and pull their clothed
owners like staggering drunks
into the deep of the park.

A man jogs past.
A bike rings it's bell.
A laugh wins the
battle of decibels.
A plastic bag rustles
in the exhaling wind.
The daisies vibrate
and reach to leave their
grassy bed.
But they are part of the park.
May they never leave.
May England remain this
way in memories forever.