Poem: Lament
The dead pile up. You joined them quietly.
Only the sad apple tree will remember you,
and the poet, of course, and the poet’s love,
year after year
until they, too, decline and fall away,
becoming historic,
there being no rewind, no reverse,
only forward-looking life,
and death,
which has no eyes from which to see,
which has no lips with which to speak,
and we, we become
the nurturing ground, the liquid
from which consequence arises.
Poem: Yesterday’s Men
They were all yesterday’s men,
aubergine ties and copper suits,
hair parted just above one ear,
stomachs hallmarked round by
excessive and expensive beers.
They grew up with Status Quo,
drainpipe trousers, the Winter
of Discontent. They swore God,
it will never happen again and
Maggie saved privilege, pride.
To hell with the rest, they said,
accumulating. Punk was dead.
Switch on all the street lights!
They never thought, you see,
that the good times for some
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