How Happiness Tastes

You let a slice of cucumber
settle, sit, full square on your tongue;
intuit with each receptor
the ring of hardness surrounding
its moist flesh. You can’t tell how long
it’s poised; or why you feel on-song.

The Crowstream

Pouring along in their thousands,
at many times the pace of the rush-hour traffic
tailing back from temporary lights,

the crows against the blush December sky
caw east above the Roman road
– the Via Trinobantes –

from the heath to the riverside,
like a streamer flailing from a wedding-car
in the slipstream of a single-decker bus.

things looking up...
in each pane of the Shard
the May sky's blue

High Wire

I have a poem included in an online anthology of Poems from Art on the Tate Modern website.