The plants in the yard are dying, slowly, its the end of the growing season, the cold fall water drips from bright green to old brown and a forgotten tomato rots on the vine./When I was twelve I dreamt of foreign holidays, bright stars and Luton Airport Parking. I was a strange child who was madly in love with Pablo Neruda./
The leaves on the trees are turning red, falling to the ground and collecting in piles. I search for sweet chestnuts, but only find conkers, The autumn is a metaphor for the sad./At twenty I replaced the words to leaving on a jet plane, with night train, I was sleeping rough with a backpack and didn’t understand why they would wear a wedding ring on return./ I read too much Sylvia Plath, but survived./
At forty it would be easier to be Robert Frost and write about nature, but I have been painted with the blackness of the post modern and now nothing is new other than my observations./

• cranberry tea with the bag in served in a brown spotted mug
• orange peels atop a bowl of cold couscous with broccoli and falafel
• a purple child’s glove with puppets on the fingers: a crown, princess, butterfly, and magic wand, the thumb is missing
• not enough tobacco in the pack to roll a cigarette
• the first page of good night moon, ripped out
• a used copy of new writing from the USA dated from 1967 and book marked at the page that commences the LeRoi Jones chapter
• a roll of tape
• a broken camera
• an empty package of chocolate chunk shortbread rings
• a documentary about the clash
• a wooden clothes peg
• a colouring in book
• a dirty toy car
• a loyalty card from an expensive coffee bar
• and an anniversary card ’you two were made for each other’

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