Poems

from 'Sleeping Through'

Poetry: Welcome

Sleeping Through

He wakes, reaches

for my hand

and says

‘it’s very morning’,

which is true.

The sky is lanolin,

dressed for business

as he kisses me

and smiles with that

rough new

tenderness of his –

then it’s time to get up,

time for breakfast,

and this is why

I write no poems –

my boy singing

to his tiny trains,

a day with no interstices,

beautiful as usual.

Poetry: About

Afterlife

Heaven is a lido on the coast

where the dead are playing catch

in swimming costumes

and flowery bathing caps

everyone’s losing their teeth

but they seem to be loving it.

Look at the lunches they bring:

ham sandwiches and crisps,

fruit and sponge cake for afters.

Hear them laughing on the sand,

the waves dashing their rumours

as they glide beneath the water.

Poetry: Latest Book

Poems

Sleeping Through

​

He wakes, reaches

for my hand

and says

‘it’s very morning’,

which is true.

The sky is lanolin,

dressed for business

as he kisses me

and smiles with that

rough new

tenderness of his –

then it’s time to get up,

time for breakfast,

and this is why

I write no poems –

my boy singing

to his tiny trains,

a day with no interstices,

beautiful as usual.

Afterlife

​

Heaven is a lido on the coast

where the dead are playing catch

in swimming costumes

and flowery bathing caps

everyone’s losing their teeth

but they seem to be loving it.

​

Look at the lunches they bring:

ham sandwiches and crisps,

fruit and sponge cake for afters.

Hear them laughing on the sand,

the waves dashing their rumours

as they glide beneath the water.