there’s this poem I must write and
that novel of the station master
built from railway journals
and long forgotten tales told by
‘Give us back our harbour’
is not a polite expression
nor it is new
or meaningful or hopeful.
The red white and blue swans
decided to take off unexpectedly
The weather man looks cloudy today
moist as the air drifting south
hands that shake from an arctic blast
and eyebrows covered in frost.
of coffee with breakfast and pills
discussion of dreams
and news with the love of my life;
breathless on a sea of mirrors
grey the sullen swell
their thoughts becalmed.
a more fitting sentence
for ripping out the nation’s heart and soul, might be to provide
each with jemmy, black mask, and little black bag, tools of their trade
I love the shock of sounds
the sudden ping of steel expanding
the points snapping to attention