Somewhere in amongst the grass,
There lies a piece of meteorite.
A silver shard from outer space,
Resting in this blackest night.
An owl hoots. Branches sway.
Did they see the final flash
As cosmic dust laid down to rest?
Or did this piece of Icarus deserve
No fanfare from the rest of us?
For the fragment this is one brief stop,
Across the ever winding Universe.

My future, sealed by a cross,
I must forever stumble.
I'm carried in a silent wave;
its dampened roar, quite lost
within a labyrinth of cul-de-sacs.
Further forward, over rocks, carved
smooth by endless years of swell.
I reach out just to try to touch,
but touching is beyond my reach.
Would you join me on this ride?
Together, when our bodies crash,
we'll know it took some other force,
to overpower the both of us.
I'd rather leave my tiller free;
let my rudder make no odds to me.

Lift me up, I am an angel.
Tie me down, I am the dark.
Let me slither with the reptiles.
Hear me cawing with the rooks.

Wrap me up, I will never fade.
Crush me, please, I won't forget.
Round me off amongst the pebbles.
Dash my head against the rocks.

I can warn you when there's danger.
I can scare you when there's not.
I am a friend to loveless lives.
I am nothing when forgot.

Poets are selfish *******.
They pretend they write for others
But the words are really theirs.
Shall I compare thee?
Try to stop me, more like,
As they go on with the rest.
Break their dreams
Or **** yourselves,
You're never free to choose.
For the selfish bunch of poets
We are nothing but their muse.

Lambeth Hospital closed down,
four years after I was born.
I refuse to believe that these
two minor events are unrelated.

My own trajectory was set long
before my birth. Necessity paved
the way to planning the new North
Wing of nearby St Thomas'.

Just as planetary alignment will
shape us, a city council understands
how their work changes destinies.
So what about free will, you ask?

We are free to believe in whatever
mysterious forces we choose; banal,
supernatural or otherwise. Damage
from wear and tear is not covered.

The dying tree
is no longer in
the living room.

I am driving on the Marylebone Road.
Waiting to be carried on the crest
of the next green wave.