Now and then there is a high wind. Weather heavy with a ragged bit of storm come off the Atlantic. A moon that sucks at you and air that pummels the chest. Now and then you look for excuses for the tension in your chest, a wire the wind seems to draw out of you, crying this way, like a telephone cable buckling between two posts.
Now and then you wait for a year. Now and then you write or not now and then, every day, every day wanting to ease and to make. Now and then you find an old coin from the year you were born and it seems strange to think this coin has traveled the land from fist to pocket to counter just as long as you have been alive. Now and then you wait, and the coin gets spent but does not decrease. Now and then you don’t wait but plan, or sit still.
Now and then you seek solace in whispering a poem, in trying to memorise ‘the rain is full of ghosts tonight’ though that poem fits ill in your life. Now and then you wonder why you can’t write more poetry yourself. You write a poem and whisper it into a soundfile and then it hushes into the bright wires tangling elsewhere and is not you any more. Now and then you build an idea out of a photograph. Now and then you misspell something. Now and then you feel hope like a strange lodger. Now and then like lead in an old pencil, stubbed but revivable. Never feathery, hope.
Now and then there is a dark construction on the edge of a park. Now and then you walk by, skirting it. Now and then the seasons come like tides at you. You wait and read. Now and then words are a wind in the sky. Now and then they tear at you and you wonder if people in the street hear that wind in awe. Now and then you walk through your neighbourhood. Now and then there is only a leaf or two under your soles.