Our Home: Yorkshire


 Across the moors,
 Heavy in a veil of grey;
 Through the rough heather,
 Purple amplified by dew;
 Onwards across the rolling fields,
 Never once stopping,
 Never once catching our breath,
 We hurtle up one final slope,
 As sunrays greet the morning
 And our view:
 The North Sea,
 A cold but beautiful vision.
 Whitby awaits to the north,
 Scarborough to the south,
 And we smile,
 And we gasp
 At Yorkshire,
 Our wonderful home.
 
 
 

Crimson Corridors

In avenues of fallen lives

across carpets of crimson crush,

the colours of seasons past deteriorate.

Detached from pillared stability,

they rest

the longest sleep.

Yet, in their passing,

they bless my mind

with bejewelled thoughts

that my eyes can but confirm.

And I think to myself:

perhaps death is not so bad after all,

when viewed down that final,

crimson corridor?

Spongelike / Incomplete


 There is a mildew on my heart
 A creeping, listless thing.
 It seeks to smother,
 Dampen all that I am in enforced ennui.
 Spongelike, my beating organ squelches beneath it
 Drowning in dirty water.
 I hold my chest:
 It coughs;
 I splutter,
 And strive for one more clear breath.
 Where is the clarity of being that I seek?
 Where is the dry, desert air that purges,
 An ochre grit to scour these innards clean?
 I do not see it.
 I cannot find it.
 There is no oasis of dreams for this beaten soul,
 No pure water to bathe in.
 I remain spongelike.
 I remain incomplete.
 
 
 

The Beat


 I feel the vibrations. They stir the night. Up through the soles of my shock-absorber trainers-not working, I’m pleased to say-tickling at my skin, the music transfers. Hitching a lift on the superhighways of my nervous system, splashing through my blood, the beat travels at breakneck speed rattling my bones. I feel it. I want it.
 
 The night is alive with a contagious beat and I don’t want a cure. Others roam the same shadows mouths hanging open, friends being pulled close; I don’t hear a word. Everything and everyone mean nothing to me. My brain rattles with the beat and nothing else.
 
 I could be anywhere, anytime, anyhow, but I don’t care. Like an electric train, I’m led on in crackling static. Buildings are just bricks, corners no more than obstructions, but salmon-like the way is known preprogrammed into my synapses. I push on.
 
 And, there it is. Light pulses out of a neon opening in vivid technicolour: the club. Bass meets beauty, as a woman’s voice soars out into the night; everyone is smiling, me too. The beat is infectious, and I’m infested with it. Good. I don’t want it any other way, as I pay the doorman whatever he wants and I’m in. And I’m lost. And I’m reborn. And I’m one with the beat.