Phil Brown -  journalist . writer . poet

Phil Brown

journalist . writer . poet

articles . books . poems


by Phil Brown


From inside my car, late in the afternoon,
The city looks like heaven. And I am an angel
On a bitumen cloud, cruising to a symphony.
Streets which hustle and rush now ooze and float.

This is the alchemy of my stereo at work.
Music transmutes my mood from stone to flesh,
From flesh to quicksilver and then, to gold,
In the soft, waning, tropical light.

People begin gliding now, gilded by the sun's
Slanting, seeping rays, until they're quietly claimed
By the shadows of concrete, glass and girder.

I am a procession of one, travelling in triumphal
Isolation, champing at a kingdom's gate in my chariot
Of rust - suspended by a totem trinity of lights
Which have set the mob marching now, on to conquer
Brave new kerbsides as they trudge.

From inside my car their tramping is
A blithe dance and I conduct the piece
Across my windscreen with impatient fingers
Until the accolade of a green light moves me
Forward, edging my way, bumper to bumper,
Into a valley of lengthening shadows.


by Phil Brown

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Copyright © Phil Brown