It stood out for it wings.

Constructed of matchbox ends, bottle tops and newspaper headlines.

It had taken three springs to learn how to fly.

But now it could,

carried by the waste.


The train sighs, bored of stations and conductors, bored of tickets and tracks. And then the train goes. 

To the Lighthouse

He’s reading Wolfe
He’s come to talk to
About her. Sitting in my office
To the Lighthouse tapping against his knee.

I sit down opposite him;
A table between.
The book’s now beside him.
The pages flickering under and between his

‘Sir, I enjoyed it more than Keats’.
The sound of a cricket game with the breeze
Boys on the lawn.

‘I’d like to visit a lighthouse.’
One night away from drowning