The Train Stops

The train stops

In the shadow

Of a concrete bridge

Half-hearted graffiti

Frost scattered like salt

On a row of metal boxes

Full of railway electronics I guess

A sack of pebbles

Spilled on the grubby weeds

A dead, grey buddleia

Waits for the spring

As the train starts up

And trundles into East Croydon

A phone rings

A loud voice answers it

A young, future-artist

Should take on the job

Of colouring in all that drab graffiti

Poem About My Mother

I’m thinking of writing a poem

About my mother

She’s in a home now

One of those homes

For people who can’t remember things

This is very worrying

As both my Mother

And my Dad’s mother

Had that disease

It’s on both sides of the family

It affects your short term memory first

I mean

Have you ever found yourself

Walking into a room

And wondering why you are there?

We’re clearing out our parents’ house

My sisters and I

Boxes and boxes

Of accumulated stuff

Rubbish, ordinary things

And a few treasures

Dad’s suits are still hanging

In the wardrobe

Destined for the charity shop

Probably in fashion again soon

Dad died fifteen years ago

We also found a brush

With hair still attached

It could be Dad’s.

Dad’s DNA

Still with us, after all this time.

Of course, it could be the dog’s hair.

The dog died around the same time.

Or it could Mum’s hair.

She’s still with us

She’s in a home now

One of those homes

For people who can’t remember things

This is very worrying

As both my Mother

And my Dad’s mother

Had that disease

It’s on both sides of the family

It affects your short term memory first

I mean

Have you ever found yourself

Walking into a poem

And wondering how it’s going to end?

Railway Passenger Three Line Poem

Hey, railway passenger

With your middle-distance eyes

Don’t look so gloomy

Paradox No 39

He’s not alone.

Callum Innes (born 1962)

I know that everyone does it

But shouldn’t someone point it out?

That Untitled No 39 (2012) Oil paint on canvas

Is, in fact, titled?