My sky is a hole from which the bucket drops.
Like all heretics, I am put to work processing stones.

To impress you, I became

a seven-year-old son of Sparta.
A little hard man, crayon

marching down the page.

God had been playing computer games
for a chunk of eternity when he became aware
he’d left creation in the oven for a long time

The View From This Hospital Window

I admire an empty bench for hours –
then a glum couple sit to share strawberries.

He sees a stainless-steel spoon
burned off at the base,
a bunch of wild flowers dropped,

Explaining to my little man
about proportion,

he responds with feeling:
a picture of daddy

with thousands of fingers.

What is this, a family outing?

Yes, dad, that’s exactly what this is, I want to say to him
as I open the car door, climb into the front seat,
remembering those marvellous trips to the tip at Loscoe.

I don’t know why I went,
I’d already heard about the time
a colleague’s husband turned up
at the staff barbecue and punched him.