Golden hour

The sun slants, bright and golden

down Calle de Alcalá; even as it sets,

unseen, behind ash-tin silver cloud

in a far-off northern town

A sadness of words follows me

to an empty bench, to think on futures,

bad and worse.  Who would want it?

Life and the living

Sandals fall on tiles, ‘mid an echoing

of voices; versus silence in a room

filled with photographs and part-read books

Remembering and waiting

A flame gutters, forgotten and ignored,

and another cigarette-end falls to the ground