The View Along The Viaduct

No one saw the sign of the goal you wanted to score
as you’d covered that with quiet,
damp proofed your sores with compliance,
lion tamed in your spare time behind anechoic doors
and we didn’t hear the scream of you learning that
                                                                          trick.

Can’t you tell this was a shock and
way off script.
Can you not smell the stone of your dad’s eyes as he looks up from where you dropped,
gripped by a breeze he’ll never forget.

I wonder if anyone will remember you not for this,
let it slip and drip off like unwatered water.
Quick, tackle that tickle of a cough into something smaller,
a glove box, perhaps, of, ‘quiet now, I think he’s gonna speak’.

I left a library for you,
football boots too
and a drywall saw.
I earthed houses, chateaux according to French law,
wired in the doorbell, gave you visits from your front door

yet I never found the time to answer mine.


Last night I flew a light aircraft along Wakefield Road and landed at the gates behind the bridge
too late to ever catch you,
but within distance to be seen through this abyss you may’ve passed off as no one there at all.