Streaming from the north-east

Sparks from a comet’s tail

Shocks of light

Stains on night’s dark cloth

Surprise of white

Streaks fade so fast

Such beauty is but dreamt.


CLP  30/10/2018

This may or may not be a Pleiades form of poetry. 7 lines same starting letter; no more than 6 syllables per line.



Some Foreign Field

Roads and streets unfamiliar

Yet still grey drawn faces

Peer down at uneven pavements

Slabs tipsy underfoot

Coats pulled tight to tucked in chins

Hands pushed in pockets

Stooped figures limp toward the lights so bright

Shadows struggle to keep up

With these shufflers

Wrapt in hopeful talk.


The same battered cars line kerbs

Bumpers kissing

Litter blown by stiff north-easterly draughts

Sticks carelessly to railings.

Ice in rain fills holes in the cold breeze

Pricks pins in my face

Grey sky adopts a gloomy shade

The stadium leans in on itself

Perpetually introvert


Its pointless activity steals the joy

From coming dawns

Scarves and shirts in reds and whites

Accents more rural

Suggest spaces more green

Less concrete.

This is not my home.


This is far from our home

Where blue skies shine

And brilliant sun parades

Strong enough to make eyes squint

When we wake

It warms our blood

Calls us to play

Unfettered by fear of failure

At night the star and crescent

Heaven’s light

Our guide.


This is their place.

I leave them


To be miserable


CLP 27/10/2018