a pocketwatch, a packet of fags,
a promise that today
would be beautiful, who knows
why it isn't so, the god
of the trees, the woman
in the shop, maybe even I,
it's not that we would wish
it not, even a beggar
needs a penny and a cup
of something for the road, no
it's something altogether
strange, unlooked for,
otherly, that we see each day
in a mirror, a vision
of a life half-lived,
half-grasped, reflection
of an unknown world

poet & dust jacket

photo and profile
give little away,
the cool, enigmatic smile,
tweed jacket, hair going grey;
a few facts, nothing too revealing,
an interesting life,
lives alone in Ealing,
with his wife

cul-de-sac

We stayed in a small hotel,
ate croissants, went out
early. Love was about
to fall somewhere, the bell
of notre dame was dumb,
invalides hidden in fog.
Metro-museum-metro, dog
days, the rain that had to come,
your blue cup sat, still life
on a side street, as we
watched an evening slowly fade.
The pavement artist with his knife
scraped out a miniature of you for me,
love at times requires a sharper blade.

proverbials

a fool and his money are often strangely resilient

all's fair in love, until it's war

better the devil than some people you know

take care of the pennies and life is destined to be a major disappointment

...a summer's day, a tangerine, a newspaper, some toes...something beautiful that everyone knows...the promise of another day