A huddle on the greasy street – cars stop, nose past, withdraw – dull glint on soles of tackety boots, frayed rough blue trousers, nondescript coat stretching back, head supported in strangers’ arms, a crowd collecting – ‘Whit’s wrang?’ ‘Can ye see’m?’ ‘An auld fella, he’s had it.’ On one side, a young mother in a headscarf is kneeling to comfort him, her three-year-old son stands puzzled, touching her coat, her shopping bag spills its packages that people look at as they loo

Crab apple tree on pier to pier, a boat to my boat Sweet, sickly diesel and sour, river air A potent, nasal note. Ahoy, Stuart, welcome aboard, and do make yourself at home away from home, 20 feet from shore. Deck creeks, water leaks, gate squeaks that needs a drop of oil on the water. Low tide now, mud exposed now Delicious it looks, school chocolate pudding, Mississipi Mud Pie, Wandsworth-style. At high tide all is hidden creek, crack, rust, mud. Inside all is golden wood G

I sit alone in a crowd, surrounded by sound Enveloped by chatter, punctuated by laughter The piercing ring of ceramic cups on marble tabletops My eyes are suddenly drawn from the proximate to the infinite In a slice of sky before me, between the awning and the parasol Something momentous is growing A silent mountain Golden glowing in the setting sunlight As I sit in quiet awe Flashes of bright, white, light emanate from within Like the laughter of the crowd Only silent, dista