John Grey

Handover   End of the work day, sun setting, park my car by the stream,   walk along the banks, stop to watch minnows gather in the stillness.

The kids of my year   So there they are – not in alphabetical order but in three rows by height –

Top of the world   We’re flying over snow-buried land, flat and tree-less. This desolation is the quickest route between two places where people live.

Two sides to my waking   I awake in the room next to your sick-bed. Through the thin wall, I hear grunting sounds, sandpaper coughs, your rough imitation of your own voice.

A Dismal Place   No joy in the world merely cattle nibbling lush grass sprouting from tilted tombstones in an old historic graveyard.

The Kitchen Knives and I   been here forever still straining to hear that lost chord linger after the others leave living under the constant pressure

History Repeats   I sat out on the sun deck watching history repeat itself. My next-door neighbor left for work. His kids headed off to the school bus stop.

My Wife and I at the Symphony   Five women in the orchestra, she counts them like the conductor counts time. Two violin, one cello, one oboe, one bass clarinet.