A poem for 100 Vapour Trails (Hedgehog Press)



The waves approached like a tube train
that wouldn’t pass through the station
but kept grinding the power rail.
Almost as many steps from the beach
as the number you’d climb at Covent Garden
if all three of the lifts were jammed
or you wanted to challenge a hangover.
Perhaps you could fall from the platform edge
hand-in-hand with your hang-ups.
Perhaps you could walk deep into sea
with all your pockets full of rocks.
But you’d rather climb.
As long as breath is left in you,
you would rather climb.


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