Northern light eyes
born in a northern town-
south of the river, dense
in flood creeping higher,
hourly by the night.
Another thousand horses charge down
canyon stream, to much applause
and to many a scream.

a poem for the presumed dead, French Hostage, Denis Allex*

An unmapped forest
grew upon chin
and cheek;
3 years in the making,
the no shaving,
helped to grow by
his tears from his crying.

Orange, orange,
orange again jumpsuit,
prisoner in the arms
of those whom shoot-
not to wound, but fire
with the intent to surround
and then to
close in
to cap a bullet for the ****.

Fire flares into the night
so phosphorous full
stops hail down, and on
the floor in front of the believers,
a paragraph shall form, with perfectly
placed punctuation;
detailing and listing
why they plucked this man
from a French farmhouse village,
and let him grow young,
in fear,
in this far, middle eastern haven.

The fireside retreats
into the wall
as another TV Christmas special repeats,
with its sound echoing in the hall.

Tangerine,
Satsuma,
Clementine-Orange
peel litters the tabletop;
orange runway for the action figures,
plastic arms, moulded hairs.

Nina Simone plays loud,
'Nobody Knows When You're Down And Out',
Christmas is over,
and now there's nowt to do.

What did you do to your hair?

It is not fashion or regarded as a
good sight, for sightseers whom fight
for the best sight to see.

Nor is it complementary to your main meal face,
no condiment would ever accompany you,
let alone a boy in a start of the month, moon-a-new,
relationship-race.

It is not natural, nor be it an attempt to
blend into your surroundings at large,
as a red and blue fringe
will never be camouflage.

So, what did you do to your hair?

“There’s a strange stalker in my chest, walking fast, unable to rest.”

And how you know it,
feel it every day,
sleep with its weight
as your comfort and dismay.
A blanket of shame to wrap yourself in;
another way to get warm,
another game to play.
Sleep alone and sleep thin
thoughts, weave them into dreams
until you feel distraught.
You
killed
a child
you
didn’t
want,
moved away back to Vermont.

Hello chimneypots and aerials,
the birds sitting on the rooftops,
window ledge, hello to you too
and to the flower *** that sits atop you-
hello.

You don’t have to wait
in line behind the boys in the band,
just to kiss that one girl’s hand.
Birds, you know nothing of the
subtleties of the relationship. Our
legs can’t fly in like yours, swoop
a female off her feet to
reside in your nest for one night.
How we have to learn the ways
of the woman, find out their likes and dislikes,
what flowers they enjoy and not hate.
Aerials, you’re strong willed and
stay tall in all weathers. All that channels
through you are the fake love affairs
that show up on pixelated squares.
Chimneypots, how I want to be you-
to smoke all day and still last a lifetime.
I’d be around for a century or two
and see suns, skies and moons
both come and go-
get destroyed by man
and his Average Joe.

I’m the son of my Mum,
product of Dad-
just with his mid seventies look instead.

Sown and grown in a house
from the past,
fixed by the full swing of
the can-do and will do,
not by the we’ll get through
or the *******.

****** by the plum tree
because its root system
sat lower than the toilet seat,
in the downstairs bathroom,
working radiator- never any heat.

Tantrums on the second step
because bad-mannered children
never want what they get.
But in hindsight, and I’ll admit,
they were doing it good, doing it right,
doing it by the book
printed in black and white.  

Nothing but rocks and stories where I’m from:
pebbles in the path
between the herb garden grass;
box hedge borders that’ll protect
and last;
stone walls hiding cancers and dangers,
unwanted gifts from door-to-door strangers;
postmen in shorts
with their all-weather legs;
women up the road
with their cool-box eggs;
neighbours behind curtains
hiding help not guns;
children in the street,
they’re somebody’s loved ones.

I’m the son of my Mum,
product of Dad-
just this time round
tall, grateful and glad.