John Grey

Refugees   Some people can’t stay where they are. As determined by no home, empty pockets

Dealing With The Government   Bureaucrats with their offending eyes, sinister thick and meaty blackbirds

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