Collected Scribbles

 I sit here as a fisherman 
 Not for fish or eels
 But possibilities 
 And
 Perhaps or maybe 
 Certain or uncertain 
 When the sky is hard
 To hold aloft 
 And the stars are friends 
 I dare not take home
 Short of breath 
 I chase the moon
 Down onto the beach 
 But I lose it when 
 The clouds fall and bob 
 Like dead sailors 
 On the sea 

 Now the night is harrowing 
 Like a Blackshirt 
 In a doorway 
 All along I knew my words 
 Would catch me out 
 In the end
 I  just wanted to write 
 A poem for her 
 But I didn’t want to 
 Use words.

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Malcolm Paul
Picture Nick Victor

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