It is odd: having taken the photograph and knowing she took the photograph and seeing the image here, she is still baffled because she cannot remember the Tobacco Boy walking past on the street.  Where did he come from, where was he going?  What happened after he was so piteously impaled?  Is that the way into the artwork?  If she goes back will she see him, an artist’s impression, within the scene?  And what of Spewy and Mr Sawman – is it the end or is it the start of the saving?

Worryingly though, if Tobacco Boy has got in, can Mr Sawman get out…?


31st December 2015

She is looking out onto a perfect winter sky. It is devoid of cloud except for a pale grey-lilac strip at the horizon; above this, a layer of palest primrose, washed and diluted to merely a hint of colour, grading upwards to merge with palest grey-blue, again shading upward to the December-blue – that pale, bold backdrop to black skeletal trees and outlined chimney pots, the perch for lone big bird, his smaller cousins having long flown away to warmer climes.  This backdrop always seems to be back-lit, wrapping around the earth as if illuminated from behind by low, gentle stars. As our star rises, the tips of the clouds are tinged with a deep but orangey rose-pink and the lilac is turning a bruised purple. The primrose glows. And the December-blue becomes a translucent veil before regaining its colour once the sunrays have climbed past. It is breathtaking.

Hello Gorgeous; All Good here

In spite of herself, the name on the message lifts her heart,

As a letter in familiar script once brought warmth and comfort.

Traitorous anticipation quickens her breath; she shakes her head

But a smile lights upon bitten lips as the first words are read.

Hello Gorgeous.


The endearment fires a shot of relief.  ‘All good here’

Is written beneath those two words and she relaxes.  The fear

Which held her is wiped clean away, fast replaced with concern

For the lover who lied.  He hurts.  His body broken.  She yearns

To soothe his pain.


Worse is to come.  The Mother of the man is dimming the lights;

The powerhouse of his life is ageing, fading and the sight

For him is hard.  All is not good.  He has to be honest.

But fear, anguish, resentment simmer, unexpressed.

And so to us.


Us.  That thing built of all of everything and nothing at all.

It is done.  To make things ‘easy for us’ – for him, for him – his call

Is to ‘shut it down’.  She realises tea offered to mourners is the t

From truth, ripped apart and reformed; the leaving is hurt.

Nothing good here.