Platform Shoes

Essex in autumn,

but this could be anywhere.

One concrete canopy,

and two lines which disappear

around opposing horizons,

look virtually identical.

We stick scientifically

to the same spot;

the same place every night

Each one

brandishing a shiny ‘i-life’,

holding it aloft, like a trophy –

A train

on the other side, pulls up,

throws open its hissing jaws,

and swallows up its suited prey,

before disappearing

into time and space.

I’ve seen enough eyes for one day –

so I focus upon feet instead.

On The Line Again

Drinking in forty shades

of quivering scent,

under a twisted canopy

of tangled wire

and weak, artificial light,

I climb down

into my seat –

not mine but on loan.

Feeling like a dumb,

worthless slob,

with the day’s cold accents of Saa-fend

and Bethnal Green

refusing to leave.

The guard

outside my window

sounds a tuneless note.

Looks at me

but does not see.

He must have poetry too,

but keeps it shrouded

in orange by day,

and TV dinners by night.

Slowly, painfully,

the world outside

begins to creep past

and the close of day shall begin.

Forests

Hunter-gatherers

in our own way,

we stand

in the clearing,

breathing forest all around us.

Our shoes crunch underfoot,

as we wait

for our carriage

to take us to our daily forage.

Each has

their own unique battle-cry,

which is keen to be shown,

but not shared.

This wood

was hollowed decades ago.

Nothing should be left

standing, to stand in the way

of progress –

but in between

the manufactured pebbles

and rusty rails,

greenery is born again.

The forests

are fighting back!