I seek my refuge
Somewhere always degrading
In other refuse

If I listen carefully, I can still hear it.
Barely audible beneath the boorish
Drone, my voice is shrill and bright
Like a child's. Not much caring who's
Listening or even if the words make
Sense, my voice trills around the
Knee high world of table legs and
Creepy-crawlies, socks with clips
And carpet grips. I hear it best when
I too crouch down and touch the
Grass or squeeze small pebbles in
The palm of my hand.

What if darkness were like light?
The blackest places would spill out
And every shadow would conspire
To keep the day as dark as night.

So when that boy leant over me
And saw his true love in my depths,
Was there not some tiny spark,
Some part of me, that lit his heart?

He stayed quite still from that day forth,
Becoming quite forlorn and gaunt
Until at last he fell, drifting down,
Down into the deepest place of all,

Where no living creature can survive
And even darkness cannot dwell.
In his place, a flower grew with petals
Whiter than snow, brighter than the

Moonlight as it dances on my rippled
Crests, caressed by the wind, sipped
By birds that skim across in flocks,
Whilst others watch from distant rocks.

Still edging along
A tightrope, but now knowing
There's a safety net

Let your thoughts move the air,
Turn despair into pitch, anger to a growl.
Imitate the sound of darkness,
Lying stagnant at the bottom of a well.
Let the mountains in your dreams,
Cause a ripple on still water.
Hum the note the earth first sung.
But never, ever, sing Wonderwall,
On the top deck of the 271.

Here come the dead.
Close your eyes and listen
To their slowly beating drum.

Smell the air turn
Marble black as day tuns
Dark as night. Moonlight is their

Master now, they
Have no need for love or
Feelings that they care to share.

Don't be fooled by
Pity me or stories
Of their troubled days on earth.

The dead are dead
Forever more;
Nothing you can say or do

Will ever be
Enough.

Bouquet is far too grand a word
For flowers lent against a tree.
Plastic wrapped and garage bought,
They'll never complement a vase
Or bask inside a living room
Amongst a noisy family.
Instead they'll wilt beneath achenes
From rows of careful London planes,
Their never tasted flower food
Held on with bright red sticky tape.
Stranger, brother, loving son,
Far too swiftly were you come
And gone.