Caught in our wild sweaty wickedness,
he hastily withdrew,
left me like meat:
dragged, debased,
exposed and butchered
on ***** ochre soil.
Old men’s lewd burning eyes
******* transgression
spiced with rectitude.
Young men sniff my adultery
and swell like figs
succulent with stricture.
Women boil the oil of resentment
and anoint my skin
with blistering imagination.

Ringed by scorn,
I kneel before a judge
who bends down and
draws in the dirt.

Guilt lusts for sacrifice, but
no one is worthy
to light the refining pyre,
except the one who draws
in the drab yellow dust.
Impotent and muttering
my accusers sulk into the sand.

His cool clear gaze
looks at my filthy bitterness
without grimace.
His living words
whittle my trespasses away
sculpting a cleansing change.

Steaming chocolate scents the room
    coaxing me to sink into
          a soft warm woollen russet blanket
    with the promise of
            spicy sienna cinnamon biscuits.
Outside the trees prepare to hibernate
  discarding yellow ochre leaves
        onto the brown damp forest floor.
Crackles from a fire-pit
    penetrate the window
        and remind me of the autumn cold.
The finest part of a wet, chilly fall day
        is watching through double glazing.

The black man – like a pretzel on the grass –
is sitting vilified because of race,
and option less, he has to let it pass;
pretending not to sense he's out of place.

Another couple point, and laugh, and stare:
fair skin and hair proclaim their easy life.
A honeyed world means they don’t have to care:
their actions cut him like an arctic knife.

Behind, the sacred stone and glass stands for
a fruitful tree of life that’s meant for all,
but cherries are too costly for the poor.
Sweet learning for the rich, though they are dull.

It’s up to you and I to fight against
all orchards that we think unfairly fenced.

Soot darkened ***** drizzled damp sandstone
    grey like depression.
Dull ochre leaves squelch wetly under foot
    rotting and foetid.

Scaffolding covers faded elegance
    dims its fame.
Water trickles down umbrellas, hats and
    drenched clothes

Cars spraying water over the pavement
    saturates pedestrians:
soaked blue jeans stick to frozen legs,
    soggy like a graveside.

Greasy spoon tipsy waitress swerves
    spilled tea;
cracked cups, saucers and sweet generic cake
    disappoints.

Stove radiates a red smoky welcome
    like a warmed bed.
Crafted draught pints served foamy and savoured
    sparkling and bitter.

Locals drink, eat, play board games and throw darts,
    laugh at the rain.
I read poetry books to my girlfriend
    by the snug fire.

Buxton will bloom, golden again
      when summer comes,
its octagonal pavilion teem
    with street bustling life.