A winter freeze halts the flow of the river Vistula,

A museum preserves the unfair deaths of innocence alive,

The old bricks merge with new and old winds,

Battle with mass historic cruelty.



My father

My father used to smell of work,
of bricks and mortar, wood and earth.

His hands looked like wood, weathered and rough,
strong when he held me and gentle to touch. (more…)


orgreaveposterEvening all

turned out nice again

Dixon of dock green dream, as seen weekly on your tv screen

Was never really here, never has been

Transformed ghostly tv myth of the bobby on the beat

keeping good people safe now,  crime in retreat. Reality shudders into focus on this day (more…)

Low Moods and High Towns

My occupational health lady, diagnosed me as low mood, but it’s definitely not depression she added, before signing me off work for another month. I first felt relief, I’ve got a title, but instantaneously, I deflated as I strolled through the streets of High Town in my low mood. Low mood and high towns, a conflict of moods, “but I feel okay”, I say to myself, before the smile melts away. (more…)

Memoirs of a Breck Road Buck

When Mr Carson came home he’d nailed his tin hat
to the pillar outside their newsagents shop,
an advert to the neighbourhood that he was back,
reclaiming his life and all that he’d defended.
They sold papers, and ciggies, and sweets of every colour,
my nose pressed against the shiny glass counter,
the smell of sweetness and temptation.
Then, one day, my mother said, ‘Rationing’s ended’. (more…)