Coleverse

In sedate green rows of study tables littered with readers, writers and voyeurs he sits with his papers sorting, scattering, sorting, scribbling fancies to break the rhythm. He's a matter of concern  to those whose work does not consume them. Curiosity killed the cat their faces say but they're too keen to be taught his ways. The adept sneak tiny peeks, collate them to build a profile; others stare at awkward angles, imploring support in this new sport. We all like a mystery but in time books or decency call off the game. He rises triumphant, collects his effects and departs to a tune they can't quite place.

The tentacles of growing affection play with ring fingers, sleeves, corners of eyes. We convince ourselves the monster is our own invention, exalt the beast when friendship would suffice. Two incipient lovers lock arms in the park and seem to be waiting for a lesson to begin, but teachers don't touch this stuff; besides the feeling doesn't let the didact in. In weeks the arm of one is getting restless and the soft sign of love prickles, annoys so that a faith is getting questioned very gently. The surprise is not that the beast has wreathed them but that it bolted quite so easily to leave them with the stickiness of choice.

Somewhere near here this chilly unthinking rain patters Spring flowers painting a respectful gloss. In my grey city the same rain rhythms neurosis, breaking the web of sun and luck, battering me awake, needling me to sleep, sabotaging the geometry I've spun.

She plays tennis every week with him - wouldn't miss it for the world. She delicately drops, and serves like a lady in long skirts, never perspiring, barely a pant at the end of a generous rally. He loves her. His skill enables him to take his eye off the ball until the critical moment, luxuriating in the sight of her; by contrast, she fixes doggedly on the ball, refuses refreshment, eager for every minute, every point. It hurts him so. His weekly loyalty amazes her - after all, it's hardly a fair match; the knowledge pricks a little, yet during long sets she can pretend they're equal, with everything to play for. He knows he'll never win.

I want to be abroad again, Escape the earnest everyday, Enjoy the drains, the traffic signs, The maps, the shops, be blinded by The cheapest jewellery on the tray. I'd like to be a stranger here, Feel strange and urgent, conscious of My every step on clever streets So far from the complacency Of kerb to step to key to knob.

The concrete stench of rain spoils baked bread and coffee seeping streetwards; I tell myself in vain: 'Be calm'. And she's smiling, framed by the multicoloured panels of an awning, dressed as I expected: casual, baggy, unassuming, drawing on a roll-up freshly rolled. Approaching, I tense to metal. Labouring to walk and breathe, no power for the garnish of a smile, I hear a 'Hi!' and awkwardly I freeze mid-step - no spit, no wit: all adult in an adolescent style.

Top deck travelling, hungover, my body absorbing the bumps of the lazy road, I encountered a singular thought which bounced about the empty seats and chrome rails before flitting through the glass to another meeting: Living in wartime would be a welcome change. Outre, the thought sourced a stream of consciousness which rusted the rails, soaked the seats, flooded a foolscap page.

None of this compares to your 4 o'clock - Now she has problems. I've heard she growls like a dog, Howls when hungry. Feel pity, Think cleverly, say nothing. Maybe she'll get there. Maybe We're all lined up at the edge, Dropping cliches like greasy plates. Maybe we play with words Like awaiting the unexpected, Shocked by the predictable, Clearing out the cupboard And putting it all back in there Over and over, forever.

Now comes the night fog - Not looking when you could have Becomes not looking now you can't - Now comes the eternal now: A balancing act of letting things be, Addressing nothing, accretion of complication, The only consideration remaining how This state of grand denial took over entirely. All hail the smooth ageing - Looking in the looking glass, Just not becoming anymore - All hail the mortal coil: An unbalanced state of letting things go, Recalling nothing, accretion of pathology, The only clear morality cowers, despoiled By the acts of dereliction and dumbshow.

Nothing fits and all hangs down and billows out, slips off and down and all the faces previously blank now snarl and gloat and glare and things held tight within the skull grow restless, homeless, craving light and news comes thick and fast and hard and all the things that once held firm with superstition, or with luck and charm now wriggle, dangle; all the ferries making stops at islands stay in port and hope runs low, misunderstandings breed and all the daily quiet and maps begin to pull and yell, and twist at arms and disappointment paints the day and things that were relied on start to stray which till today might have meant fun but now, right now, mean only harm and I, who can't decide, must choose how to go on and on and on.

We're trying to identify who's responsible and it's sure to be anyone but me. We're trying to find a solution to your problem and you're lucky I'll do it for free. We're trying to clear a path through the thicket and I'm armed to the eye teeth with machete to hack through this undergrowth, scales of justice and last but not least a heightened sense of what it is you've done to upset all that was right. I'm going to help you see that no one will bring comfort to you in the night. All this I do more as a calling and of course out of love and concern; as you open your eyes to the morning give some thought to the many I've spurned.

Woken up or still awake, the grass frosted, Thinking out loud he says: 'Maybe it's cos I don't read enough' And ideas of cannons being primed In fiercely frozen fields take off And crash soon after pen hits paper, Fuselage looking soft in the early rays, Kerosene spilling out and the flames Making a mockery of hard, cloddy ground. Let's try again, this time fix On the loyalties of that age, p rint them out Almost factually the first stanza; research it, Be deaf to the clarion of social networking, Do the work. That plane idea was interesting, Flesh it out.                       But no. Apparently not. Music or something or mazy thinking Grant that horrible few seconds of uncertainty When it shouldn't be enough but might be. It's always enough. 'I need more sleep And to read more.'                                   For now, the gauze He's written about before, and resents Referencing, again descends, Like the biggest du

The sky breathes ripped dark cloth, presses the gravity column down clumsily onto my head. And I swear I heard a snigger in the moment before we felt the first fat drops.

When writing a poem - pen dangling like a ciggie from a fat lip - just sit with it, she said. Everything fragile must be cradled: a heavy sigh blows through the filigree of smoke, smears lace into paste, pushes out into disorder like...like... waves on lugworm casts, the spoon in milk-splashed tea (she wrote some down, and I saw her work take slow shape through luck and design). As she wrapped the olive cashmere scarf around her neck a second time I looked up from my notebook, shook her hand with half a smile and thanked her for the gift of being kind.

With such a weight of pencils, drab and bolstered - scribbled histories from then to now - now squatting on your fragile shoulders I'll talk of intricately rented worlds and how such brilliant and fresh-laid concepts shattered plate glass thinking way back when. We'll scuttle - frantic like the sugared insect - and overegg ideas from now to then.

Frost roosts on my gable and fears nothing. The plump pigeon ruffling its feathers considers me, as a plane floats golden over our heads. It knows better and is not fooled: cold wakes first, thinks faster, clings harder, claims all. Two panes of glass, piped gas and a pen separate me from the pigeon's living.