Through a narrow street

Through oceans wide and deep
through space and time and sleep
through apathy and inertia
the loneliness that hugs a paper
on the deserted street

through pain and insult and memory loss
morning coffee, in a tin pot
you can stay here if you work here
and keep the throat from going moist
and Brighton, with lights on

that's where you saw the sea
for the first, and last time

through doubts, self-harm,
the doctor's anti-depressants
"that'll help you, my dear,
plus it saves me from having to listen
as I shuffle uncomfortably, I'm not your shrink!
and this shoulder's not for crying on"

that's when you trusted the NHS
for the first, and last time

through your food, your clothes,
your hair, your skin
each bit you loathe
I came to say I love them all
and most of all
I love you

You could do worse..

I had a lovely time in England, my friend Andrew had just been ordained as deacon in York minster. What a lovely service! I travelled quite a bit by train during my short stay, since I also went to see Andrew's first sermon as deacon in Cottingham the same day.

You could do worse

than get on a train,
take aimless aim
and go coast to coast
in England,

watching her sun
rise and set, rise and set
at each station
a new thought kept, new thought kept

and see purple dots
appear here and there
among green fields
lulling you to sleep...

then, stirred by majestic human outcrops
cast votes on which houses are best--
grey-smoked stone by black country
or the thatched rooves of Wessex

or the regional dialect --
as your ticket inspector chimes
"cheers, sweetheart!" in Yorkshire
but, further south, you become sir

it's hard to go a few miles
without spotting some canals
and marvel at a narrowboat
that passes through a lock

and as the coach gently stops,
waiting for the oncoming train
to rush past, and perhaps sound a horn
you realise why you

left home,
took aimless aim
and went coast to coast
in England.