Remains of the Day

Ripped a thistle
from the grass
beside your grave...
rain stopped
then started again.

The siskin’s call
far coarser this spring
than before;
a harsh backdrop
for the life
I’m left to live.

You are everywhere,
and yet nowhere –
the sun, a yellow
thumb-print – not
sharp enough
to peel back
the rind
of the morning.

Outside these railings
and this gate
the London fog
dogs me like a stalker
and a gigolo gives
the come-on to a girl
with hard-baked skin...

who’s got zilch intention
of paying for sex –
not with a man’s got
‘Free Lunch’
written on his face.

Above my head
a patch of blue sky
and the wind’s
all-encompassing hands
do their best...
writing and rewriting
the day.

For me, what remains?
To watch a dark sail
gliding over the horizon
and a bummed cigarette –
the closest I’ll ever get
to a happy ending.