Sunday, August 31, 2008


Tell us the story about the little boots


When Saturdays were only for football

Torn Envelope

And the pit-heads baths is a supermarket now

Death by Sunbed

There was a picture made of flowers


He worked in the steelworks

How you can push, push with your anger

Tonight, January fog

How much that dies with them

A mother moves away to birth her lamb

Let the number be learned

In a few month's time I will stop and linger

Old men like monkeys

February Streets

In clear snow like laughter

I have known too many of the murdered


Mrs Blenkinsop keeps a tiger in her cellar


You wouldn't know the place now


Old, so old, and short of wind

We went on holiday to London with Mam

We who wait

The old sad things have been forgotten

When old age came he stood up and kicked it

On the wrist, a watch

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