Friday, 14 February 2014


The boys bunch  in the dark, shift on threaded palm and stones,
a cigarette passes from one small hand to another,

a banding together of fingers around fire and ash -
affirmation of a tribal pact, rodent eyes veiled in smoke. 
A voice calls.  "Put that cigarette out!”  They sulk,  tilt on chairs,
cartwheel a dog-end into jasmine, snarl at the film,

then rise, faces caught in the flickering light, old and shuttered, 
balanced on frail, birds’ cages. They are  a feral pack leaving,
moving as one, a hunch of waves turning. In the street,
they straighten, lords of a famished kingdom, kicking cats. 

More of my poetry can be read on,,

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