Issue Five

Autumn 2012


By the Midland Station I sit down

I swear by the curses of the cabbie
and the smoky stigmata tattooed on his neck
the recalcitrant Citroen with spite in its lights
will soon shift itself from under his wheels
and by midnight this chaos will calm.

Scattered by the wild winds of Sheffield
comes such a multitude, so many undone
by random collisions and broken down engines
The accursed, the unbidden, angry, forlorn
heads all riddled with unlikely timetables
lost connections and missed destinations
abandoned on moorland, stuck in old stations.

I swear by the song of the shaven-headed
bloke on his mobile crouched on the kerb-stone
that all of this madness will fall and tumble
into the secret vault of dark waters
where Porter meets Sheaf under the platforms
where floodtides ebb and brickwork reflects
the throats of dead angels, the breath of old demons.


David Harmer



silver fractal