I am most visceral
when being disarmed
by a song, a lyric
written and sung…
in the broad New Yawk vowels

The ferry pushes the sea,
forces a long, white reply
that speaks of where we’ve been

In a corner chapel of the abbey
I lit a small candle, and sent the flame
as a message only half composed

there’s not much you can do
when the planets
are telling you to stop

Can’t hear yourself think only the bass line
of a heart thumping. Your head’s clamped.

It is not like an egg cracking
or an exquisite shiver of shattered glass.

When I lost loved ones last year
I thought my childhood fears would return.

There’s a house in a suburb of between-the-wars pebble-dash & bay windows, where the soundtrack is sighs, tuts & bellows, the clash of plates & jangle of cutlery.

She gets into your bed
like when she was little.
Flowers grow out of the wardrobe,
moss claims the windowsill