Winter-Summer-Summer-Winter

Winter-Summer-Summer-Winter

Spring 

Spring

Let it ring

In your ears

The sound, smell, touch, taste, sight

Of spring. 

Four seasons

One of four

Then two, three, four

Spring. 

Awake like

Daffodils and

Snowdrops 

Primrose and

Lamb born

Bird song

Bees buzz

Tree blush 

Spring. 

The accent of sky

Clean light and

Air not yet quite dense

Nor rushed

Pollen kissed

Spring. 

Once there were 

Four seasons 

When each one

Begot the next

Each shade different 

And that was 

England 

They said. 

Today is hot in 

March 

And the UK has

Lost its 

Cool water

Tree bud

Slow, steady

Shortened 

Spring 

I reckon.

A thought on the climate and ecological crisis

The other day, taking the tube, I had a thought.

We'd stopped at a station, on the platform. We'd waited a while. 

Other trains passed us. 

We stayed still, waiting. 

Something was happening. 

A tube attendant and someone in business attire rushed about on the platform. Soon they were joined by two policemen.

We were locked in. 

Something was happening. 

The tube attendant, businessman, and police walked repeatedly up and down the platform, looking in and out the carriages.

Clearly they were looking for someone, or something.

People inside the tube carriages had begun standing up and talking. 

"Let us off!" one cried.

"Last time I get the train mate!" shouted another.

"All this with Coronavirus!" splurted a man.

"We're panicking!" shrieked a woman. 

The crowd was coming together. 

Sometimes, you see people and how they react. You think, we don't have a hope getting out of this. 

Pity the next generations. 

All these fools. 

I'll just wait

 I'll just wait

A bit longer 

For it to get hotter

For a few more fights

To break out

And flights and car journeys

In the heat

For a few more elders to keel over

For a few more cars

A few more degrees

Fewer trees and

The air to become

Thick plastic

Rancid pandemic

The forest my

Lungs spits and burns.

Who lived here before we don't know

My child chokes on

The future she doesn't have

And politicians 

And people

Flip and flap

A long cry home. 

They've been talking about 

This for years and

Yes, the taking is

What they've done. 

Turn the air con up

Run more water

Stop the talking. 

I don't see butterflies

Any longer 

Nor hedgehogs nor

Hedge rows

Nor beavers

Nor bees. 

The soil is dead

Rich with nitrates

And phosphates

For the food that nourishes us

Fertilised 

Stillborn. 

The water is sick 

And flows less in 

Streams of thick sludge

And heartbreak of

Sleepless nights

Flood 

Infertile. 

I'll just wait 

A little longer 

For the masses to

Come and swarm

Upon us

Desperate for food

And water 

And life

And species. 

I'll wait, 

I'll just wait. 

A Very Modest Offer

4 July 2020 Bulletin
Exclusive Offer
First of all, welcome back. It's great to have you.
I wanted to inform you of a very modest offer. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity you'll only get once. It's not to be missed. It's priceless. Once it's gone, it's gone.
Ladies and gentlemen, on Oxford Street today, I bring you free Covid-19.
Rare animal skins, furs and jewellery to secure your status. Straight from the prime tropical forests to your door, carrying a luggage load of air miles and promises of fame and gretaness. It's like your very own piece of nature, transported to you. You don't even have to move (beyond Oxford Street). Assert your human dominion over these subordinate species, rightfully reclaim their land. Soon you won't have to worry about diversification, consequence, or things being remote or different. You are number one and the planet shall bow to your demands.
I must tell you though. There is a slight catch. This free Covid, despite being prized the world over, for it is money, it can occasion the odd side effect.
I therefore hereby disclaim all responsibility for any conceivable outcome whether that be following science fact, readily foreseeable on the basis of experience and knowledge, blindingly obvious or bizarre. And anything else for that matter too. 
You'll note I have entered the above in tiny text so you mightn't read it.
Perhaps I should have done that for the last sentence also.
And this one.
So my list of known side effects from this Covid-19 which you may consult on with your health doctor or any scientifical professional is as follows:
A high temperature
A new, continuous cough
A loss or change to your sense of smell or taste
For those more vulnerable, chronic illness and possible death.
Other items worthy of note, highly foreseeable, and scientifically known to result in either an increased likelihood in the above being occasioned, that is illnesses following the production and exchange of zoonotic diseases, or otherwise the cause of additional catastrophic scenarios highly probably likely to worsen the whole thing to name a few are:
Irreversible loss of species, habitat and biodiversity
Catastrophic global warming
Flooding and destruction of communities
Sea acidification, soil erosion and loss of food sources
Air toxicity and pollution
Groundwater poisoning and depletion
Uncontrolled mass migration, war and famine
Ultimate human and planetary collapse
So, for today only - trust me there is little time - we welcome you back to the shops to unthinkingly purchase your luxury goods and divest your chain of responsibility. Act now. In the face of all evidence.

Badges

Someone said something recently in an instant message about badges being a good conversation starter. I was resting because my back hurt after I’d lifted something stupid. A little while back I had a fall. I put my badge on and stuffed a reusable cotton tote bag in my back pocket. I decide to pop to the local shop to buy a four pack.
I exit the rusting metal escape stair at the rear of my first floor apartment. A guy stands fanning a barbeque adjacent the boundary wall. There’s a farm’s worth of meat lined up on the hot steel grille, already turning brown. I wonder how much carbon all that accounts for. Dub music is playing out so loud you’d hear it three streets away. As I descend, I remember there’s no last step.
I can’t decide which beer to buy so the shop owner comes over to help. We’ve run out of that one but if you want flavoured beer try this. I buy flavoured beer, maybe because I feel my life has lost flavour. Nice T-shirt I say to the little girl. On it is an image of a unicorn surrounded by colourful psychedelic rings. I assume the girl is the shop owner’s daughter. You hear what he said, the man says. The girl shrinks but manages a smile. I give the man £12 to get a fiver back but he seems confused. I explain it to him.
I leave the shop and cross the road, staring accusingly through the windows of passing cars. A car alarm goes off behind me, the same one that’s been bothering me each day since I moved in. I peer over my shoulder and realise it’s the shop owner’s. Sonofabitch, I mutter.
A couple look down at my badge as I pass them. I see a mouth move but no words. I walk back past litter lining the alleyway, knowing I’ll pick it up tomorrow. The recycling bins are overflowing with beer cans, only a handful mine. My neighbour sits rigid against the ground floor rear extension wall, leering grin on his face like Al Capone, clearly heavily intoxicated. I think about the garden again, all hardscape concrete. If there was a fire, I thought, it’d be quite well protected.
My life’s pretty quiet now. When I can get out of bed, I’m turning over the same goddamn stuff in my head. Everything I see, everything I hear, touch, smell. It’s exhausting. Every time I get up I start to feel rough. I thought it had gone away. I’ve been taking some medication but that’s stopped. My friend died and all I seem to think about is myself. They say we’ve a good head on us, trying to save the world. But my head’s a mess, and then I often reckon it might all be for pretty much selfish ends anyway.
I get angry a lot these days. I think it’s the sense I have of a dwindling mental faculty and inability to understand. That or an incapacity to control. I take another swig of my drink. Beer probably doesn’t help. But then it calms me down and helps me forget at least for a while. Then there’s the writing, helps that within reason. A sort of tarot card of a naked Japanese man and lady, usually propped at an angle against the digital radio, has fallen over and I hadn’t noticed to reposition it. Unusual. I hear someone outside my window say something along the lines most things are really blurred and I’m glad for this moment at least my mind isn’t sent whirring. I stare into the laptop reflection or somewhere about it and it helps me centre. It’s running on battery. I start to feel a little drunk and let the thought go.
Sometimes I get so tense and my body seems to just lock up. But if I don’t keep fighting, I’ll lose it. Do I deserve to do this to myself, I think. I have to keep feeling that I’m processing it all, or I’ll flip. Sometimes I think, if I don’t think about it, nothing’s any different, and I can save myself all the stress.
I stay up late in the summer, something to do with my diurnal clock. What badges do we all wear, I wonder. My mind appears to slow down again. I hear a sound knocking against the wall. There’s a racket upstairs, someone stomping about. A house alarm goes off in the distance. I take in another breath.

Bus Driver Vacancies

Bus driver vacancies
Call this number now
We reguarly have new opportunities
When our doors open
To welcome new recruits
When the old ones have faded
Lost their pizzaz
Their highs exhausted
Drifted away from
Former allegiances
People come and gone along
The way
Their stories told
Been and gone
Memories all that’s left
In their jaded eyes
All alone to count
The days
Before they became
A bus driver
Their whole life
Ahead of them.

Catching the Butterfly (57), for Victoria

1.

Trace back my steps
To make sense of
Black ringed sea groynes
Geogrids plastic
Soil support
Rubberised movement joint
Black pebble slipway
Splitting asphalt and
Tarmac sloping away
Rusted sheet piles
Steep unguarded drop
Depths of sea weeds
And a boat
Lapping against the high tide
Short of hours
Tide tables, breakwaters
The shape of waves
Rolling, passer by
The last one won’t let go.

2.

Stuck, writing backwards
Two shells, black and white,
Among my hand
Among each other
Lovelorn
Palaces and hiding places
The beauty of shells of
You and me
And the sound of the sea
Within
Flutter and rush of blood
From here all is human centred
Inlets and coastal pools
Birds nesting among
Bunker grafitti
Wheat fields in motion
Hardy trees along the shingle
Street, blood red sand
Keep off beach.

3.

Trace back my steps
To see how I started
Loving this person
In this dream of mine
Catching the butterfly
Around grassy verges
Stooping left and right
Before it flies away
Forgetting everything
Once closely guarded
Like fortresses
And tiny windows
Like three turning four
The tilt of the earth
This side of the hour clock
And back again
Like bird cry, Mikama,
And when I stop still
It all comes back.