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Paul Walker London by Night I'd been off coffee for two years, Then I sank some Turkish in Soho. It hit me like a depth-charge, I couldn't sit still. So I slipped anchor and drifted the streets of New Troy, swooning at the girls wailing in their crooked Greek. I docked at Trocadero and hit the punch bag machine. Smashed two hundred crosses into it; straight knock-outs, both hands, each time. A guy had washed up there drunk, A vicious slash across his face, red as a Turner sunset. Like a dead ship in a storm he Pitched and rolled, until the bouncers threw him overboard for bleeding on the slots. Snuffing out my stern light, I followed in his wake, searching for rum and cigarettes. On The Way to Visit Calvin's Church Halfway up a wall in old Geneva a tiny blue flower grows in a crevice. Dark and cool, it is the perfect cave for a hermit to practice an individual faith. At ease with its beauty, The flower grows: Sprouting without instruction, blooming without guilt. Birth, death and resurrection Naturally accomplished without need of salvation. ©2008 by Paul Walker Paul Walker's poems have appeared in magazines and newspapers in Britain, Ireland, America, and Japan. Originally a journalist, he moved into teaching, from which he had to retire due to illness. He is married, with a Puckle (little goblin), a dog, and three cats. He lives in Sheffield, England. He dislikes custard.

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