Untitled

Pulling up his black drain pipe jeans

over his out-hanging arse. 

Like two silk cut purple pulled from their cardboard sheath,

Revealing effeminately slender legs. 

Twitterings search broad green strokes,

drawn wet from early afternoon rain. 

Tarmac stretches long between fields

Where aircraft once thundered to waiting rage.

Sun bleeds through heavy clouds,

Red kites creating arching sillhouettes against the trees,

Grace in predatory form. 

Over-size white T-shirt hangs loose

Masking a slight paunch. 

Shaved back and sides, too short,

SIR, YES SIR. 

Aching spasms, split deep

Through hope.

Loss on loss on loss,

Does not numb torment.

He is there now,

Echoes over ageing concrete,

Eery un-silence pervades.