Homecoming

It was after the Tottenham Riots

and after the trouble at work,

after the death of the singer

and the dancing, at the carnival.

The day after she came back home

we drank tea in her kitchen

poured from a saucepan.

We walked down her quiet street,

leaves heaped

against the paving stones.

We ate lunch, lemonade and cups of tea.

We talked about the weather in the Midlands,

light collected round our feet.

It was the day after they discovered

that time travel might be possible;
the day after the man
had said so on the news.

We were sat there in her kitchen,

after the gown and the corridors,

after the waiting and the phonecalls.

The sun shone on the curtains.

We stirred tea.
Time, moved.

Particles

It was after the Tottenham Riots

and after the trouble at work,

after the death of the singer

and the dancing, at the carnival.

The day after she came back home

we drank tea in her kitchen

poured from a saucepan.

We walked down her quiet street

leaves heaped
against the paving stones.

We ate lunch, lemonade and cups of tea.
We talked about the weather in the Midlands,

light collected round our feet.

It was the day after they discovered

that time travel might be possible –

the day after the man
had said so, on the news.

We were sat there in her kitchen,

drinking tea, poured from a saucepan
the day after particles

broke every rule.

It was after the Tottenham Riots
and after the trouble at work,
after the cuts, and Libya, Syria,
the death of the singer
the dancing at the carnival.

The day after she came back home
we drank tea in her kitchen
poured from a saucepan
boiled on a stove.

We walked down her quiet street.

Small leaves, heaped into crevices.

It was the day after they discovered

that time travel might be possible.
We ate lunch, lemonade and cups of tea.
Light pressed in against the windows.

We sat there in her kitchen.
It was after the heat
and the turning

the day after particles
broke every rule.

Second Draft

It was after the Tottenham Riots

and after the trouble at work,
after the cuts, and Libya, Syria,
the death of the singer
the dancing at the carnival.

The day after she came back home

we drank tea in her kitchen

poured from a saucepan

boiled on a stove.

We walked down her quiet street.

Small leaves, heaped into crevices.

It was the day after they discovered


that time travel might be possible.
We ate lunch, lemonade and cups of tea.
Light pressed in against the windows.

After the deaths and the riots,
as we sat there in her kitchen,
small hands, dark hair,

the day after particles

broke every rule.

First Draft

It was after the Tottenham Riots
and after the trouble at work , after the cuts
and Syria, Ethiopia,
the island massacre,
the death of the singer,
the dancing,
at the carnival.

The day after she came back home
we drank tea in her kitchen
poured from a saucepan
boiled on a stove.

We walked down her quiet street.
Small leaves, heaped into crevises.
A ladybird settled on her shoulder.

It was the day after they discovered
that time travel
might be possible.

We ate lunch, lemonade and cups of tea.
Light pressed in against the windows,

after the deaths and the riots,
as we sat in her kitchen;
the day after particles
broke every rule.

October Girl

In October I put on my space girl suit

I’m a crime fighting super hero

I’ve got 90 denier rocket tights

and a button down dress,

like a suit of armor.

I’m losing legs in flowing coats

forgetting bra straps into sand

I’ve left my sarong in Gibraltar

with a closed umbrella and a bronzed man.

It is October and the heat has risen,

the leaves have settled into iron grates

and I am mostly wearing
my mother’s cast offs,

her seventies shirts

with my tweed dress.

It is October, and I’m casting off vest tops,

I’m turning my wardrobe into a booth,

I’m spinning around in a tardis

confirming my shape
in a green cagoule.

And in my head, I have every outfit,

I’m a bobble hat holding my father’s hand,

a short black dress, taken in for a party

at Halloween, on a velvet night.

I’ve an emerald skirt knitted by neighbour

and an emerald cardigan, left in a flat,

a pistachio ballgown folded in a hat box

worn for a fancy dress ball on a farm.

October, Borollo, Sangria and Merlot.

October, Genoa and Earl Grey tea.

It is October 

and the days

are getting shorter,
air is thinner

October is running

in a gas blue skirt,

kicking leaves.

First Draft

in October I put on my space girl suit,
I’m a crime fighting super hero,
I’ve got 90 denier rocket tights
and a button down dress,
like a suit of armor.

I’m losing legs in flowing coats,
forgetting bra straps into sand,
I’ve left my sarong in Gibraltar
with a closed umbrella and a bronzed man.

It is October and the heat has risen,
the leaves have settled into iron grates
and I am mostly wearing

my mother’s cast offs
her seventies shirt
with my nylon dress.

It is October and I’m casting off vest tops
I’m turning my wardrobe into a booth
I’m spinning around in a tardis
I’m confirming my shape
in a green cagoule.

October, borollo, sangria and merlot,
October, genoa and earl grey tea,
October, I know her, she’s a woman
in a boa, she’s a cloud grey cover
and a flame red suit.

In a room, in a basement
at the clinic of hair
there are nurses au natural
and patients that stare.
There are magazines rustling
Countryside la vie.
There’s a man with a crossword
and a widow’s peak.

There are bobbed brunets,
and Elvis quiffs,
and Gaga tresses
in diamonte pins,
and women in turbans,
and women just bald,
like hard boiled eggs
or billiard balls.

In a room, in a basement
at the clinic of hair
there’s a guy with no eyebrows
or hair on his chest.
There’s a fine set of lashes
stuck on with glue.
There’s a shadow on an arm
but it’s only a bruise.

And I’m covering my patch
with a four inch flower,
aware that here
it’s the equivalent of a siren.

Alopecia, alopecia,
I love you Gail Porter,
I’ll get a job as Sinead O’Connor
and learn to kill 80’s aliens.

I’ll get a big wig
and do Cher impersonations,
wear feathers on my head,
I’ll join a boy band.

It’s the first thing I’ll say
when I get in the chair,
I’ll water it with tea
and give it a name.

It’s the first thing I’ll tell them
when I get in the chair,
when they unclip the flower,
and lift up the parting,
in a basement room,
at the clinic of hair.

September

Pizza, bruschetta, gold dress, Rioja
Autumn is here and Winter forgotten
Walking through town, arm in arm with a lover
Moon in the sky, and leaves good as rotten
The air is cool, with the stench of roses
I hold his hand, Hosanna, Hosannah
Autumn is here, drink coffee in cafes
Wine in bars, sashay in slips, tights and stilettos
Everything is fallen, there is rain on the street
There is light on the path, the memory of heat
Pizza, bruschetta, gold dress, Rioja
Summer is dead. Long live the Autumn.