Chasing the odours of burnt pocketbooks,
to teenage angst plotted roughly sometime
between Glasnost and things can only get better,
led by the nose to the horse-pool, no idea of escape,
the shakings and trembling in the hedges
of something-something summers to come.
In a reel of suburban dogs barking, gulls rising a V across
the sunset in the near that bleeds umber and gold
onto four walls once long with Thatcherite shadows,
and in the knowing that one day it would all be
in the middle distance, a seam of light is struck
to fade the poster of a one-hit wonder.
Jane Commane (forthcoming in Assembly Lines from Bloodaxe Books, 2018).
Individual poems of mine can also be found online at: