Vase of Cornflowers and Poppies 1886-87. Vincent van Gogh

A pretty painting, a bunch of flowers.

Most are beautiful, doing well

Some at the top even shed their petals

Fertile and bearing seed.

But look down, see those who wilt

Pressed to the edge of society

Heads hang down, outcast

Soon to drop and die.

Their vase, the world

Is a vain arena of struggle

For all those within

Whether thriving or failing

Are without roots

All are doomed to die.

First jog of Autumn

The new trainers are hard,
Slapping against granite.
I look up to the tall towers
And the stars above them
The glow of lighting,
Flickering televisions,
Turning night
Into individual days.

The Number Ten
Is waiting at route’s end
No more passengers this night.
It bobs by and darkness
Is left to my right.
Now it is my turn
Left,
Through apartment towers
Left again
And along the cod night sea.

The wind fillets my cheeks
Blows my hood back
Cinder crunches under foot.
Above is a hunter’s moon
A bombers’ moon
But the night planes are
Now indifferent
To these docklands
No Viking raiders of
Yesteryear.


I leave the dark waters
I leave the idle dreams
Turn for welcoming home
Breathing has been good
The ankle held up
On this,
My first jog of autumn.