Nick Wayte


Town lights glint off the parked tractor cab
the vines invisible darkness descends
the ghost of Schopenhauer haunts this world

(I don't know how or where this begins or ends)

my father a working man
now senseless dust in a damp Evesham field nothing
has left me of that

the other-worldly realm of banking gambling
slow motion cinema crisis
(its money Jim but not as we know it)
recession marks the spot like Treasure Island

and Mr. Risk the banker Bank
of Scotland (retired) he does exist I met him
riding the sub-prime wave dealing
derivative contracts credit default swaps      credo
such mysteries would you credit it?
holidays in Provence the bars the bistros
sunshine glowing behind the plane-trees
(nothing to resent)

but in the talk of Middle America
Marx is unspeakable
and oligarchy remains unrecognised

'buy rhythm early buy late
you'se always trapped in the capitalist gate'

but then in the night at moon-rise something returns
(the 30's my fathers youth)
The bald-headed moon in a clear sky
says nothing new the clouds
like Chinese paintings of themselves
soft and frail at the edges
so nothing to resent

and I still don't know where this begins or ends

                                                                                                     March/April 2009