Month: September 2017

Poem For The Weekend #68

Drunk Autumn Midnight Below Victoria Embankment And the sky wet as a loose tarpaulin. I’m walking but not home. I’m taking the air. It tastes sweet, like rust. The tide is out and the mud is thick as meat over the inner city’s chalk. Here are the broken fingerbones of clay pipes. Traffic cones. The imprint of my own feet, walking back. Here is a seed stained black. Live as a fist, but all I want is somewhere to sit down a minute, tomorrow’s newspaper (the pages hot with fish and vinegar) and the watermark of London sky green as old money all over the river. Tobias Hill