Hopes persist just like these scrappy boats,
moored on the canal;
some stay overnight,
while some don’t leave at all.

On hot nights, the boat people
brandish sausages and wine
and re-define the art of gracious living,
across the tow path
as runners, pledged to marathons,
crash through uninvited
and are welcomed.

No one minds except the grumpy swans,
but stand well back
and raise their glasses higher
for it’s summer – high summer –
and I’m a runner too,
not feeling sick or lame,
or half-dead with the shame
of disability. I am a runner.

And next to crash through,
like all the runners do.

I am a runner.

We are runners.

I was a runner.


lunar glow upon the ocean
a thousand times he casts his net
never has he caught her yet
steadfast his devotion

quicksilver love is wild and senseless
now he casts his body in
never to return again
quicksilver love is endless

the moon it smiles upon the ocean
evermore her smile is set
evermore she’ll cast her net
in vain for such devotion

no good reason

and I thought I’d wander down towards the sea
wander down the lane towards the sea
the pleasure boats have all been locked away
but pleasure’s over-rated anyway
and I found I had no further use for rhyme
so I sat upon a chair and thought of you
and rhymes came through
and rhythms too
but no good reason
no good reason came
for anything I do
without you