Staring death in the face
For a second
Took me apart
For a moment

                                And I stopped
                                And I breathed
       And I realised just how much
        I don’t want to go
       Not anymore

I didn’t breathe straight away
Actually
First came the butterflies
(but they weren’t of excitement)

                                  Maybe they were moths

And I shook
Like a brown paper bag
You can throw away
Because nothing happens

                After that I went and
                Got on my train
                I went on a protest march
                For what I care about
Because I want to make a difference

The red brick roofs,
telephone wires,
and soft, evenings like this
are what I will remember
in the coming years.
Sipping lychee drinks
and watching the pale pink
of the horizon’s glow.
And it’s so still,
so quiet
except for the steady air
the breeze of distant cars
and children’s voices
from the old park.

This is the night town,
a town of peace.
though, really, it’s a village.
My village.
Unnoticed on common maps.
I used to see it as so,
so small
because I know every path,
every hidden street,
and all the fields that surround them.
But now I’ve realised
that it’s holy ground.
Ironic for an agnostic,
but I love the songs
the blackbirds sing
outside my window
in the mornings,
and at night,
and now,
the time when everything is soft.
Since we’ve passed the spring equinox
I’ll find comfort in
domestic love,
in a place it takes
fifteen minutes to walk round.
Please be quiet.
I just want to sit, and listen.

The smell of mahogany
as you walked through
those white wooden doors
and the dried lavender
that spoke of summers past.
She raved about the art deco
treasures and wonders she
collected and I was mesmerised
by the ancient modernity
sugar crystals of brown and gold
were put into darjeeling tea
next to collections
of handmade theatre masks
hung among portraits of
a younger blonde girl.
The sounds of a stormy night
as we sat eating some
honey roasted almonds
were a rhapsody to us at candlelight
I wanted to sketch her antiques
and add them to the
painting filled walls
one of them I found
was an old typewriter
a Mercedes that her mother had
found discarded in a dump
she didn’t know if it worked
and so gave me some ivory paper
now I sit with the lace tablecloth
by the window to the
evening street below
cars pass with the softest breeze
and I write of summers past.