forgotten

i won’t forget you, i shouldn’t think.

although your birthday’s slipped my mind,

since culling facebook this past spring.

and i’m sorry that i locked you in

that anecdote— cut adrift from your name

and circumstance, for the saving of a second

or two in new company.

and i still find a trace of you

in a once-buried, thoughtless turn of phrase—

a story dropped someplace in the divide

that i’d sooner ignore than cross.

and i’m still drafting that apology, indefinitely,

in part for things i recall that i said,

but more for the things i don’t.

because i fear the ugly shadow that

the worst of me could cast.

but most of all i hate the end, where i’m

a ripple lost to the tempered sea,

because hidden in the promise that i won’t forget

is the hope that you still remember

Ode to the 319

Don’t you miss the 319?

The brutish sound of steel on steel.

A soulful choir’s roars and squeals,

That promised dreams beyond this line.

–

The narrow paths between the seats,

Coughing dust and worn threadbare.

The long nineties and Tony Blair,

Haunt the patterns of the fleet.

–

Doors beeped the same emphatic beep,

To much more brash, emphatic boys,

Who talked above the warning noise

That now just wards away their sleep.

–

We laughed across the table tops;

Youth carried through old England’s green.

It promised things we’d never seen

And led dreams towards their final stop.

–

I wait beside the busy tracks.

A ghost of that receding time,

Kept here by the yellow line

That never lets you back.

What’s in a name?

The one they tucked away quietly,

With the lightness of a leaf

On a callous autumn breeze.

–

Oh, just the little grains of life

That once rattled and pierced the air

With impossible vitality

Before settling with the rest.

–

All tied up

In those fragile words

Is just the fragile vision

Of countless days spent.

–

Before— from time to time—

When rolling past the gates,

I’d peer over the chasm

Towards unfettered youth.

–

Here’s comes the nostalgist;

Prodding the memory,

Checking the pulse

Before we both flatline.

–

As the casing cracks,

Wear curator’s gloves

And extract the severed legacy

To place behind tempered glass.

–

I clutch these artefacts

That crumble slowly

Under the weight of years

And years to come.

–

But the new words

On those monuments

Reduces, by one,

My enchanted hoard.

The View From The Galaxy Bridge

Yesterday I tried to set on paper, something of a place

where I would walk when I was younger,

One that now– looking back– seemed so full of wonder and delight.

A bridge, enclosed in windows that looped

all the way ’round and sprung high from the side of a town centre car park.

The heavy steps of mum and dad would shake the floor

and start the tingling in my feet. You were held above a nameless street

as cars and people moved beneath you.

It led to the cinema, with high ceilings

and the mingling smells of treats trapped in the carpet.

The films, of course, were a treat as well,

but on the way back you’d walk across the bridge– a space

between the world you’d just inhabited

and the car ride home again. And there– with the blood

still rushing back to your feet– the thought

floated in the dusty air that maybe it was all real

and that– as you sat fixed in your seat– the world outside

was changing too. And I miss the spring

in those hopeful strides– past the inviting depths of

the school night dusk where you can live

your new-learnt truths.

I can’t go there now, and perhaps its best that I can’t

because I don’t think I really miss the place;

I’m only chasing the enchanting glow

that’s drifting further into the haze. And the more I try

to pull it into view, the edges get softened by my clumsy

hands and failing wits.

But I still cup the flames of that feeling

of crossing the Galaxy bridge.