Station

You sprint down

the platform at Piccadilly.

The first time I see you run.

Boyish.  Easy.

Sun pales gray

through the train shed roof,

as if we are lit for a morning set.

I wait for someone to shout "Cut!"

The doors close.

We're late.  The attendant frowns. 

Next train leaves at 11:11.

I don't mind.  It's lucky.

The carriage is warm.  It sways.

You explain why bricks change to stone

in the crosshatch of hedgerows

and sundry farms.

I find a station in your arms.

Stillness in your eyes.

Think how indecently happy,
should I suddenly die.

tk/April 2015

Lovely read by R.A.D. ...like the gentle sway of a train carriage...

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Explicit Cake

Progression of days playing

in a constant loop,

a marriage of minds.

The loop is safe;

just what we take,

walking all that is left.

Time hangs in the air.

Oceans dry up.

Paths wind in sentences,

give rabbits chase,

willow to climb.

Curves follow a mutual train,

pause for picnic lunch,

explicit cake.

Done with doing, I wait

for the loop to be installed

permanently; with no way out,

a cul-de-sac. 

tk/June 2014


Scrumptious read by R.A.D. Stainforth...glass of wine with lunch...

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