New year poem
Tottenham Hale
If I were to start
again, I’d start
at the end of the long,
unbending street.
The Turkish restaurant
by Christ’s Pieces.
King’s Cross.
Or the bus as it leeches
my heart, so sick a thing
it almost longs for woe.
You see—less changed
than I ought to be.
If you knew, you’d laugh
with the rest of us.
What, O God, ensures
my song?
Grace, my love. Years
since I’ve touched it.
