The two of us set out on shaky legs,
to walk the park’s circuit before they lock
the creaking gates on strollers and their dogs.

The hour hand saunters close to eight o’clock,
you glance up at the twilight tinted boughs,
expressing equal wonderment and shock

at everything the world tosses at you,
while I am plagued by constant inner visions—
a hyperactive, neural CPU.

Our dual mentalities are not a schism,
we are instead a dual core processor
running the same operating system.

The daddy chip eschews aesthetic pleasures
to weigh up matters of utility.
The daughter chip is exempt from the pressures

of economics and society
and wordlessly admires the evening show.
That is until the slowing frequencies

of light sustains the eerie,  gilded glow,
erasing memories of the daily grind
and I am lost for words you’re yet to know

and for this moment, we’re of the same mind.


Canto CCLV

The teenage boys around the local pond
aren’t throwing rocks at ducks as they appear,
they’re trying to make some little waves to send

their football back to dry land, though they never
anticipate the tiny little gusts
that drag it further out, if they could leave

the ball to nature maybe it would just
wash back towards them in its own sweet time
and it is their sheer impatience that casts

their quarry further out. This clumsy rhyme
could be a parable on letting nature
take its noble course—cast a slack line

and leave it all to fate—but homely pastures
grow thick on buried bones where earthworms feast.
All toys must one day drift off from their masters.

Sometimes the terrapins eat baby geese.

Canto LX

It’s funny how a nineties cartoon craze
for mutant, martial arts amphibians
has populated Britain’s waterways

with thick shelled, sharp beaked, green skinned aliens,
supine in the sun before they plunge,
to gorge on eggs or crunch through duckling’s bones,

and yet these monstrous actions won’t expunge
the excitement I feel when I spot them
lined up along a log, neatly arranged.

Who knows if, in fifty years time,
pollution might have mutated these fuckers
to move from duckling death to petty crime

like mugging pizza vendors with nunchukas?


A final burst of summer in October—
geese poke necks through rusting iron rails,
waiting for a chance at our leftovers.

We’re on the bench, watching the twitching tails
of squirrels as they double check their stash.
This unseasonal sunshine has curtailed

my melancholic urge that seeks to latch
my hang ups onto autumn’s imagery
within some sanctimonious dispatch.

Instead, I sit with you beneath a tree
and share two packets of Monster Munch.
Pickled onion flavour, naturally,

we only choose the best for Sunday Lunch.
The cooling lake still ripples with the blue
of this last summer day spent in a clinch.

Next day like this we shall be more than two.

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