This black bulbous fruit tempted all
drooping the branches, shiny skin refracting the sun’s rays.
Some white-fingered Adultery called out and smiled
then enclosed our throats and burrowed deep inside
whispering blame as it settled its juices above the shore.
I dream of the fructose that flood the branches above.
Full-bodied and flavourful
like wine on a Monday:
Delicious regret.
We’ll be taking a break for a week; the next poem will be out on 2nd February.
“Centenary“
If you stand still in the pre-dawn long enough you can hear
the heartbeat of the city,
past the spray-painted smiles of Digbeth,
twining the column of the Rotunda;
you can hear its fervent rhythm under the blue sentinel of the Radisson,
and opposite the spike of the BT Tower where dreams hang and play;
its secrets lie hidden, wearing the shadows as a cowl,
memory a gauze parting you from the clapping and stomping
of that distant song;
a heartbeat set alight by possibility;
and no-one’s turning you away
because you’re still of age.
You’ve been asleep to it for too long.
But there’s a chance to follow it still,
through your teen screams and the bonds you made,
The drama, the accusation, defiant cries shooting up to the
waiting ears for the laughter that will
give breath to the joy of today.
The Singing Lights 