A shortening of this time, a tranquil hour,
as chaos and celebration continues behind
closed doors and bars. The stillness outside
allows the patter of foxes feet on concrete to
echo like avalanches.
The first sip always tastes bitter now,
my taste buds filed down by decades of
misplacement. A singular crack across
this glass is now more than sufficient in
bringing this evening to a close.
The recovery over four days lets those clouds
slowly break, but without rain. Just a gradual
reminder that our stride has now shortened,
our voices now grate against the most stable
It all crept towards us too early, like mould
upon damp carpets. and managed to break
our delicate swagger. that never held more
than its own body weight. It’s centre never
as soft as we constantly liked to portray.
Once it’s Gone
Just off that side road, taunting the last
dregs of each pint, our fingers never gracing
the filthy change left in our pockets. We again
look forward to that fictitious holiday we have
planned- two days upon uncut grass verges.
We drift pass those dilapidated lairs, once
occupied by working hands; calloused and cut
short without a word of thanks. Their achievements
now our meager entertainment, the fruits of their
labour now encased in dust and dispersed on this
slow, tepid breeze.
We climb those make shift steps, the clear
air a vaccine for our lungs, to protect us from
the next four months of smog. My eyes for once
stop excreting false tears, as we approach that
final bar, we understand the stain we leave is
unavoidable; yet another unwanted necessity.