Poems Title

Plough over Peckham


I sneak out of the kitchen door

to check for neighbourly fence infringements

under cover of unembarrassed darkness.

I keep my head down to avoid the dog shit.

A red tablecloth flaps damply on the line

like snared wildlife and I look up.

The night is crisp and sharp and black,

and behind the slow parade of glinting planes

the  white still lights of stars make shapes,

the last fragments left on a broken string

when the old circus tent was blown away, 

when the great pier crashed into the dark sea.       


28th Feb 2014