A broken, in a fit of temper, hand-phone
in the box of tissue, now alone,
watching near a pot of rooting hormone,
me.
Four cans of Bristol apple juice, abort,
crunched, like drunks, help me through, taut,
an evening of thorough melancholy thought,
for me.
La Pedriza now three quarters gone,
the chopping board there, half back dripping, and on
the draining area, pot and plate both try to con
me.
Four boys, a girl, a Whitby pub where
Mart smokes, Pete bottle drinking, one eye Willie, Tish bare
thoughts in a pose of hush, each in long monochrome hair,
a long, lost photo, with me.
The evening light grows dim, the end of this morbid July,
the summer solstice has long gone by,
the wet clouds, wet Welsh air in reply
to me.
Near me, purple Y Llyfr Ffon, resting on its back
on the worktop of a house lost on a track
to endless nights that stretch in a rack,
it appears to me.
I walked back from the town in thick drizzle yet again,
self-inflicted misery maybe my swishing cane,
but I stopped by my wall to rest, in spite of the rain
that hit me.
A fruit fly walks around a discarded tin, to explore
the dimensions of the flip top upper floor,
I tap the tin with pen; the fly’s off, trying to ignore
me.
‘an evening’s pleasure, where art thou?’
Away, as earth turned by the plough
as it breaks it into fresh birth chow,
be nice for me.
I go in the garden to contemplate;
one hour Jen bathroom to incubate,
now I am, in this wretched July, irate,
annoyed with me.
A 10.10 shower on this cold summer night,
thinking why things might not be quite right,
yellow shorts glow warm and bright,
unlike me.
On the pink carpet floor, wireless channel two,
helping to get this cold night through,
wet winds chuff, then blow the trains to Crewe,
but won’t take me.
