Too many loomers
Carving wing spread
Shadows onto a
Wallpaper of orange
We approach but the
Gate shuts with a rapturous clang
Faces at the window offering
Hot anxiety
The perch is damp
Wet with accumulated
Visitation
Paper fires in London
Brighton
Or veiled English villages
An intruder enters, carefully.
The Mayor, fresh from
Leisure
Eclipse the bottle of
‘rouge’ in the nook
Behind the wall
Under streetlight
Of muted admiration
Not yet dark, remaining
Light compressed under
The guilty weight of
Smog
Curtains pulled fractionally
With peep holed filled by
Left-wing-left-eyes
Islington twitchers, outside
For limp cigarette
Wary of front lawn
Invasion
Rifle through the bag
Into a queue of isolation
Singled out like a
Favourite coin
Nervous plosives as
The rates are reduced for
Me, out of pity
Shuffling through an
Enthusiastic chessboard
To the undesignated front
Bones malleable, carrying
Effervescent speech
A deep set thumbs up
To a minute point, above
Our heads
Time in sizeable
Chunks is occupied until
It starts.
Sam Huddlestone 