I can’t recall the people on the train from Delhi to Jammu. I don’t retain their style of dress, their speech or anything. All I can see is the bob of the telephone lines where roller birds regard the country lanes. A beautiful day in 1989, dreaming dreams of Kashmir in the spring. One of the happiest days I’ve ever known, at ease in an open carriage door. I’ve only packed some touristy clothes. I can’t divine our fates in the flight of birds, we are not shown a hint of what the track ahead will bring. Watching the rollers erupt from railway signs. Watching the rollers explode on cobalt wings.
I live in Harrogate, Yorkshire, where I run the local spoken word open mic group. I sometimes perform poetry at festivals and writers' groups and I have four published books, the latest of which is a 437-sonnet "verse novel" called God The Banana.
After shaking off the fault the golden thigh ruptured and I moved into the aneurism of a drop. Realization was the key to enter the curve of a moving circle. The time had come to take off the jacket and