There is another hole in the old town.

When it rains it will hold water like cold
craters on the moon.Devoid of life now,
each drop will hold the history of years.
Every drop will reflect on scrubbed steps
and drunken Fridays and days off in bed.  

The wind will whistle hit parades over mud.
Grass will pretend it was always here and
cold kids on new bikes never turned out at
Christmas or in new clothes come Whitsun.
Plaques will not record the living or the dead.

There is another hole in the old town.
Shaped like a worn shoe. Hard to fill.


Tony Noon

We chose this discrete island.
Not cast away as rumoured.
It was space to think things
through that was needed.
In time we found ourselves,
found new skills and learnt
to play with fire and with smoke.

Those first signals, reciprocated
from the far horizon did it.
Like minds entwined above
uncaring water. We wanted more.
We wanted high towers so that
we could see ourselves across
the empty oceans, but towers fall

and dust blows out the flame.

Tony Noon

I often take the long road home.
It allows me to take a deep dive
of events and find my place in
the trajectory of working hours.

You can do this sort of thing with
quantitative matters. Interactions
between a) and b) will always have
a measurable effect on levels of c)

I have tried to superimpose this idea
on qualitative issues without success.
Even on the longest route there is not
enough road to draw firm conclusions.


Tony Noon

Forget the book and candle.
The creaking comes with age.
You know those rattling panes
are taunted by branches left
uncut by you in lazy summer.

Do not lock the door and run.
Ghosts are particular. Always
with us, they thrive in three-ply
boxes, and in packed suitcases.
When you are ready, they are too.


Tony Noon

I heard three but there were more
languages in play, some silently running
through their viewpoints of a day so far.

Where we came from was uncertain.
Clouds of intent ,we had drifted from
indifferent mornings to find ourselves

funnelled for a few minutes into this
shared space. Going forward, diversity
meant nothing.For different reasons

we all needed the same destination.


Tony Noon

Between the doorway
and fireworks a year
is changing and all our
conceits, all our deceits,
are falling back to earth.

Melting in parallel they
are unjudged ,offering
no clues going forward.
Broadcast like seed on
hardened ground, they

are a coarse blueprint
of a place we thought
we knew, a place we
liked to call our home.
Remnants of fireworks

know nothing of stars.


Tony Noon

It was always about the night.
Always about our attempts to
dominate enveloping darkness.

We pushed it back. Cave mouths
belched fire to warn those legions,
while candles carried us outside.

It was not rocket science which led
us from the dull realm of Morpheus,
but our increasing mastery of light.

We danced at all hours under lasers,
while neon tried to win our favours,
but unforgiving darkness is forever

alert to the smallest crack in resolve.
We are upstarts. Any hint of deference
will draw the wind towards the candle.


Tony Noon