The North Is Rain strikes terraces stacked in brown brick And wind blows through the underpass. Two fat-breasted pigeons Fly over York Minster; a single seagull Squats in Speke. I’m out there burying neolithic arrowheads On Kersal Moor & freshwater shrimping In the Irwell, or I’m cruising Upriver, crazy as a Lune & sauntering A Sunday Through Morecambe Bay, my bat-black cape Flapping all the way to Whitby Abbey. Of note is tonight’s Full fr

Night Sketches Over Lytham St Annes, Liverpool and Leeds, Manchester too, there's a full moon in white light suspended and all tonight’s stars are out, wannabe stars on dirty side-streets in designer gear, in dirty black cabs on dirty black roads. Drive too fast brother and you don’t see a cat’s green eyes rub past the dustbins; or a fox ethereal in light electric, sniffing a chicken bone. High on pleasure of the sensuous kind, they go on, each

Lancaster bleached by rain – a wet wind blows through a line of washing. Fog frost, petrol odour, urban towertops vanish in the aerial grey

City Poem Under the iron bridge, office workers, wet with rain, crowd on coaches & trams. I stay by the river & watch them go. Everything is flowing now, a hissing juggernaut of lorries, cars, buses, passenger trains – varying streams of atoms in rapid motion – racing ahead of time; streaking by factories, allotments, tower-blocks, back-to-back slums; terminating or turning at the last suburb, at the conurbation’s edge, where the sun slips down the sky, into a

Confronting the Dead So, descend the steep hill Slowly, go on Go past the lunch cart — Scolding tea, coffee Hotdogs, burgers Fried onions, ketchup — — Succulent dark odours — Smells so foody — Mingling With exhaust of traffic — That they foment in your gut A hunger you didn’t know you had. Go ahead, under The railway bridge, turn right, Allotments to your left — Carrots, beans, raspberries Basil, rosemary, parsley Marigolds,

Aquarius So, the routes of the city, all its paths, arteries and overflows – the scummy run-offs from sewers and roads – end or start on the muddy banks of the sallow-tree river. Water does what it knows: It coils and uncoils like a gut over decades-old millstone grit, between the crumbling, rumbling jaws of Anglo-Saxon stone; Sneaks and snakes under willow trees; runs past hospitals, factories, back-to-back slums, picking up brand new stories and the gho