The sensation of a memory,
awoken in the mouth:
a sweetness on the tip
or sourness in a bite.
As we chew a picture forms,
the shifting sunlight drifts
across a single pane of glass -
the taste of time transfixed.

They've always been there; the perverts,
the pederasts, the paedophiles. When we

were young, our mothers knew. "Not a nice
man" or "The bad Mr ..." so and so. But they

didn't tell us, didn't warn us - they just herded
us with coded subtleties, like sheep into a pen.

We learned through whispers, slanders, filthy
rhymes and songs. But some didn't. Was it

shame which kept us ignorant? Shame that
in the grown-up world there are broken people?

We would have understood. We'd seen bullies,
heard foul deeds, sensed danger dressed up

as kindness. Yet here we are; older and wiser
but still incapable of protecting all our children.

Hung low in the sky at night,
brighter than a brief reflection;
the comet flies.

Small crowds of pointed fingers,
perpendicular to the comet's cares,
trace the growing sense of awe
that builds on every shore.

Is it further than the sea? What lies
beneath the beast? Will its whiteness
end the world or will the world survive?

Children ape; arms pinned straight,
shoulders hunched, racing round in circles.
The comet is a silver lure, its significance forgot.

Rattling the tombs of Kings,
from ages past,
from pasts,
passed.

you won't have felt the butterflies inside
by hearing someone
say they do too,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have stayed in bed all night and day
and ordered pizzas
in the afternoon,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have sifted through a smelly bin
to find a thing
that wasn't yours,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have travelled in an ambulance
whilst clinging on
a nervous hand,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have shed many real tears
the kind that roll
into both ears,
unless you've loved somebody

good morning
silence
oh no
here it is again
slowly, the billowing sheet
floating down onto the bed
the careful tucking corners
and turning back       the top
while it just coils there
      in the middle
like a dead cat

The flicker of a whispered ghost
On baubled beads of glass,
Flees a world daubed dismal brown,
With mud trod over grass.

A dampness hugs the sagging sleeves
Of shoppers' weary arms:
Their stooping arch more drawn to earth
With every charmless charm.

Is inside where the magic's coiled?
Inside every ***** kitchen.
Endless chinking glasses raised with
Chunks of ice cubes glinting.

And through it all I stand and grin:
Half braced in case I fall.
I'll never last til Armageddon -
I've already hit the wall.

words passed softly in the night
imagined or divine
like falling petals from a flower
each landing on the floor

a simple mattress with a sleeping boy
woken by the sound
unsteadily he walks next door
to find out why he's called

at first he's told he must have dreamt
the muffled baritone
he falls back in a tangled dream
uncertain when there's more

once again he's told he's wrong
before he's told he's right
the voice he heard belongs to God
be ready when he speaks

the boy lies fearful and frightful tense
alone in solemn dark
waiting for the voice of God
to spark light inside his heart