Last Words

High up here, with the wind’s whisper willing to me to fly
and no attendant angels there to catch me.
No hope of Heaven now with him,
whom they will say I simply sold for silver.

“One of you,” he said. I stood. Send me, I thought,
instead of him, the heavy-handed hot-head; instead of her,
who loves you most, who’s closest to your blood and body.
Let me be nearest to you at the end.

My end is here, hopeless, roped onto a shaking gallows tree.
I fail to see. I fall. I feel the branches break my. I –

Now there are going to be some (well there would be if anyone actually read this) who will think me morbid and excessively God-bothering. Perhaps, but this is one of my favourite stories and is the first of a three-part attempt to write the other voices around the crucifiction. Those of Mary Magdalene, hot-headed idiot Peter and poor, despairing Judas. You don't have to believe: it's just a cracking story. The poem's written in response to Carol Ann Duffy's 'Queen Herod', which is far better than I could ever be.

Love Song

Thank God you're back,
between the grubby sheets,
beneath the creased black covers.

Back on crowded mornings, whispering
in my empty ears, scribbling
secret notes across my thoughts.

Back beside me in the café window
watching London walk to work,
thick-thieved in conversation.

Back because I need you;
but when Summer stuffs my days
with doing, you'll fall silent.