Laughing crows eye you hungrily

Forever draining but never dry
Airbrush sprayed. Fawn and dead red brown.
Imitated by camouflage.
This is the real thing.
In frozen colour drained grey
Shot through by distant godly memory of summer
Wheel specks of feathered dust.
Everything below is stunted and slowed.
Frozen and thawed.
Clinging on.

Hiding

The machine will not stop.
lights keep flashing
Pistons thumping
Churning out
Junk

They keep building
Brick on brick on brick
Ever taller
Wider
Capacious

We have gathered
And hunted
Standing
Surrounded
By our kills

The cruelty of boredom
Is corrosive
Flames
need a spark
To ignite

Calder

The mist is low over the valley

Concrete grey walls entomb us all.

Even the incomers

With their bunting

And better ways

Of living better lives

Feel the dread

Of living with yourself

Etch-a-sketch

Let’s write new stories.

In chalk on the pavement

About nothing and no one

The rain will come

and wash them away

When it has dried

We will start again

leaves falling

rust growing

Machines seizing

Fuel running out

As we forget

How to make fire

And return to the sea.

New Build

One foot, then the other
jerking through the sludge.
Scanning the darkening water
while fireworks explode
in impotent memory of anger.

Low flight skims the surface.
Sky lighter than the oil below.
All the shades and sculpture of the clouds
has become flattened into silhouette.

The world is disappearing before me
as a tiny lion hunts in dying bramble
scenting still smaller things,
hiding in the straw of forgotten summer.

The lights if the horizon coming into focus,
some bleeding down the foreground,
like an oil paint reflection of the actual.
Stillness caressed by distant traffic
and the phasing, persistent wail of a siren.

A terrifying story.

Earth moving
slower than I,
sliding and crushing.
Forcing upwards. 
Fragments worn, 
waterborne,
forming again 
According to current.

I fight against the upward climb.
Dig my toes into the gravel,
suck in more air
and then, for a moment I am king.
Scramble, slip, slide and stumble,
inexorable descent.
The valley floor in shade
The bog which never dries.
Downward evermore

Following water's course. 
To the plain open terror.
leave like the Iron Man.

Dockland - rewrite

Had another go at making music. I say 'music' - I mean passing the time. Quite pleased I managed to keep something minimal though.