I wonder what it will be like to be 55. 

Each face will be known in time, relations and relationships formed

through viral videos, HD blossom punching through screens

to form a pink crust on smiling faces.

Steady lines etched on taut skin, (spiralling from 1999 to 2016

and onwards) until the inkings blur and stretch

foreshadowing wrinkles of youth.

Aristocratic histories, doling out death with a flick of the wrist

replaced with caustic app swiping and lifelong settlements.

Too busy being shadowed with electric lighting

to thumb laughter lines or pinch hair between teeth

and happy with flaccid VR, the modern person loses touch

with relations and relationships formed.



I’d capriole from bed,

stealth across the landing: yawning,

watch the dull light under

my parents door,

and wait for the padding

of Mom’s feet and the

open palm fed to me

through the dark.


Thirteen one-foot steps,

holding on; down towards nothing.

I’d sprawl along the lounge

and feel the single carpet strokes,

the sudden cold: Goosebumps.


I’d perk up at wisps of buttered

croissants and jam,

sit up and scoff them,

and wave good-bye at the door,

smudged in breakfast.


© National Poetry Labs

Barmouth Beach

I still see the waves,

pounding the sea-front.

A younger version of myself

goading the tide,

watching gulls navigate the

broken, blackening clouds.

I’m swept away

back to the car by my Mother,

as rain starts to crash

in through

the open sunroof, onto laps

and foiled sandwiches.

The damp sand besmirches the

mat at my feet, smudging gold onto


Purple hands hold wet cones

of chips on the promenade

with one hand, the other

feeding 2p machines until fat; waiting

for them to vomit coins.

Splintered light

pushes through the crowded clouds

to hit the back of my neck as

we start to drive home.


© National Poetry Labs

The start of growth?

This blog will hopefully document transitional and transgressional pieces, ones that can challenge creative boundries and work towards a great end product.

This is a work in progress where pieces will be posted sporadically and analysis, explanation and discussion will follow.

Sharing what is often seen as a wholly personal journey is a challenge for anyone; but it is worth sharing what will hopefully provide an insight into modern British life for the average poet.

Cheers- NPL

@NationalPoetry (Twitter)