Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Departing King’s Cross
              he was the dark haired man
              with the folding bike, half hidden
              in a corner seat. Then
              as we moved up a gear…
              Arsenal’s stands soaring into the murk
              beyond the trackside waste
              he produced his phone.

Before we got to Finsbury Park
grey steel, gleaming new glass
elbowing flat brick terraces
              we knew he was Douglas;
easing out of Knebworth
the train bursting through fog’s dreary hoop
out into sun spoked fields, our windows
snagging radiant hips, bright haws
              Douglas Robertson. Thirties, close cropped hair,
              light pleasant voice, and clearly
              doesn’t mind the carriage knowing…
Welwyn at speed
              that he lives in Epsom;
leaving Potters Bar
silver flash of willow, moorhen
caught out, scrambling for a ditch
              has a two year old - and...
slowing for Baldock
sharp autumn sun illuminating
oak’s tawny parchment
              prefers to cycle. Next year though he hopes to fly,
              on the 21st of March, to New Orleans - alone,
              for business. But then he’ll meet
              the rest of the family two days later,
              in San Francisco. On holiday. If
              the fare’s right - and includes the air miles,
              all twenty thousand of them.
              And that’s a must.

By Ashwell and Morden
a concrete chimney pluming its steam downwind
across the coming green of next year’s corn
grey seasoning of pigeons
              Douglas reckons we’re more or less on time
              for his morning meeting, ten o’clock,
              in Cambridge; tells someone else
              he’s sure the moment isn’t yet right
              for clinical trials. But later in the week…

somewhere between Meldreth and Shepreth
willows and ditches and sky, more sky, more time
than the radio astronomers’ poled arrays
can hope to riddle, sieve
              …later, he’ll be seeing
              Doctors Northclifte and Stoti
              to discuss Gonzalo Martins Gonzales,
              who he’s referred
              for further tests.

By Foxton
              we even know his number,
              095 double 7, 1 double 3, 456. Plus
              he dials left handed.

But as we all spill out at Cambridge
into a milky field of autumn light,
the lawns glittering, worn stone
warming, and those green shoots
behind us now, the two year old,
the tiny seeds pith deep
within the shining hips and haws
              Douglas, struggling with oil-stained fingers
              to unfold his bike, suddenly appears less sure
              about what really happens next.
              Or where. With phone switched off,
              tucks trousers into clips,
              straightens in silence, like us,
              to face the town.

If I were Gonzalo Martins Gonzales
I think I’d keep him on my case.