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Dusky Ink
A little heater with its electric glow:
it sits in the shadow, it means home.
Back at my flat; top slot of the lift.
Dusty designs in a ramshackle drift.
There’s no wine, just cheap cigarettes.
Smoke makes ghosts cos I can’t forget.
Cans might clink if I drink as I think.
A moon-edged sky; the window’s brink.
Skeleton towers on her diesel breeze.
The city’s sea shifts softly, uneasily.
The sun inscribes with a dusky ink,
so sirens rise high as he sadly sinks.
Under the Overcast
Subdued, I sit under electric light.
The sky is leaden with rain in the afternoon.
A heaviness tethers me,
the moment disowned
by a vagueness unknown.
I see a sombre city outside the window.
A glow diffused by dour cloud,
blue-grey unloading slowly.
Then my eyes shift to where
rivulets run on glass,
catching brightness under the overcast,
like tiny sharp suns lit.
And it seems that
if hope is focused there is a wakening somehow.
Ben Preston 