Stem the tide,
hold the gates a little longer,
I do not want to be taken at the flood,
my carcass,
swollen with tears and rain
will become a ship,
the fat canoe that once I sailed
adrift, abandoned by her crew,
a jolly little craft,
flecks of paint disguise the hulk beneath,
who will haul me in
some fisherman perhaps,
complete with tangled hook and waving line
claiming salvage rights on what was  me,
or will I wander, bobbing wild
through the marsh and onwards to the sea.

A time for leaves,
for change,
for sweeping clean and mending,
starting anew
throwing light into long dark corners
shutting doors and closing windows,
summer is gone
she left no forwarding address,
but she took a yellow sun
and the deepest blue of sky,
she packed them in a suitcase
and she never said goodbye

I’m tired,
heartily sick of failing and trying
of jumping and falling and crashing not flying

Off to the zoo,
to watch the otters and to cleanse my soul,
the world has churned me,
flattened and burned me
to be quite honest, it’s left a hole,
a couple of hours with whiskery faces
might put a smile in all the right places

The big wheel turns
grinding to be sure, but certain slow,
we don’t need reminding
we all know,
it regulates the rhythms and the seasons of our lives,
we feel its ticking heart, in everything we do
a constant subtle changing
gently rearranging as the year is running through,
no drama
no three act play
no dying of the light
no endless darkened days
not yet,
oh it will come, for come it must
but just for now it’s hazlenuts and
mellow rays of sun through patchwork trees
a chill of revolution
and the hint of something burning
slowly fading on the breeze

We will influence what you try,
listen to us and buy, buy, buy
picture number twelve
will make you cry,
to us you are toothpaste
a pliable extrusion
both a victim and a slave
of social intrusion

Wearied by grey,
hardly awake, but all too soon it comes
early doors,
it taps upon my sheets and bids a leaden sky outside to play
so appear the vague beginnings of another day,
sunrise drags the pavements and obscures the view,
no children yet, no happy chattering faces on the way to school,
no harassed rushing workers wondering what the day will find
the pleasures of a weekend break are scarcely brought to mind
amid the chaos of a busy life,
office stress which stirs up simmering bubbles,
the ever expanding troubles of our daily grind
which start off small and grow to fill our lives
that soup which feeds us, where we try to thrive
but what about the grey,
the newborn day, which hovers underneath a tardy sun
sturdy still and quiet, predictably it lingers,
digging with its fingers through the roots of all our lives
the light will send it hiding,
but be sure that it’s surviving, somewhere
locked inside our heads
Monday light’s revealing, brings a melancholy feeling
and a soon forgotten shadow of existential dread