Fresh autumnal rain.
More memories, less gain;
When will I feel real again?
Bricks in my lungs,
Ballast in my brain;
Cargoes containing offal
At the county dock detained
Host more value per grain
Than weights of my breath
Weights of my stains.
In a vision or a dream
Or pulleys in between
Leaf-angels concealed
In that forest unsealed,
A garland of garlic
And damp pine cones
Adorning a gully
Appears more comforting still.
In the distance,
Ambulance sirens,
Playground ebullience;
Good luck to the teary drunk
Trying to abstain.
This is the Year of the Ox
I explained, your wealth;
Deaf ears and ailing health;
I did not let that tiger inside you.
A cessation in rain;
In time, I came to realise
Nothing here will ever be real.