Fiction   Essays   Poetry  The Ten On Baseball Chapbooks In Memory

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.

  Home Contributors Past Issues Search   Links  Guidelines About Us

Subscribe to the Slow Trains newsletter