Dusky Ink
My little heater with its electric glow:
it sits in the shadows, it means home.
Back at the flat at top dot of the lift.
Dusty chairs in the ramshackle drift.
There’s no wine, just cheap cigarettes.
Smoke makes ghosts cos I don’t forget.
A can might clink, if I drink, I think.
A moon-edged sky; the window’s brink.
Skeleton trees on her diesel breeze.
My city shifts out there so uneasily.
The sun inscribes with a dusky ink.
The sirens rise high as he sadly sinks.
Ben Preston 