Here Comes the Rain

Here comes the rain.
It’s English rain
From English clouds
Grey and ragged
Like dirty cloths smeared across the summer Sky.
Already steady
It’s Filling the drains
With disappointment
Relentlessly washing away
The fun.

Holiday makers sit huddled
In the sea-front shelter
Plastic mac collars turned up
Gazing vaguely at the torn grey sea
Eating sandwiches
And waiting surgery patient
for the coach to come.

Shoppers shiver
Tripping through sudden puddles
In sodden sandals
Carrier bags filling with damp
Wishing the washing was
Not on the line
And the shopping was already

Builders bundle into the front
Of the transit
Windows steamed up.
Looking glumly at the paper
It will be the only sight
They have today
Of the Sun

A woman passing by
Catches my eye
Shoots a small wry
And Darts a “nice weather!”
Eyebrow to the sky

And I wonder what words
You would use
To explain
That this
Is what it is
To be English

Rattling Bones

The rattling bones of the old year
Will not lie down
Will not lie down
One last dance under a hard moon
Out on the town
Out on the town
One last mocking sarabande
In a moth eaten gown
Moth eaten gown.
Yet Calando dolente she must lie down
In leaf frosted snow
In leaf frosted snow
Her rattling bones in music unborn
Echoing down
Echoing down



The amber beads strung out along the edge of night


Are no enticement to me now.


The wrinkled moonpath


The silver sea path


Draws me to the winking eye of Wodan


The flashing ruby fire.


The star wolves to guide


And the black ravens to know


The dark horizon glow


That means another world below.


Love Story in Peckham – the video

I’ve been working with the brilliant film maker Jonnie Dean. Here is the result of our collaboration

Poem of the Day

Here you’ll find a poem that I’ve written recently or perhaps one from a performance set that somebody’s asked to see again. This one I wrote in response to a series of images by film maker Jonnie Dean.  Jonnie then edited the footage to fit the words. Today’s poem is called

Love Story in Peckham


Somewhere here there is a love story.

If you look

In the tilt of a face

In the dragging of a suitcase

This is a home place

A transitional space

Where things are

And things are not yet;

A time between that first look

And the first kiss

A breathless grace

In the homeward race

Between here and not there yet.

This homeless place

A negative space

Day for night

Shot through with light

Flaring from inside

Where we are moved

From looking To being looked at.

And somewhere here

In this breathless place

In the tilt of a face

There is a love story.