Maturity

The old chef says that
It is the stalest bread that
Makes the best breadcrumbs

Marathon men

The slap of trainers on tarmac
Echoes down the still-dark street

Youths are happily a-bed,
Snugly dreaming - it's the
Middle-aged who feel the need
To run, their faces red,
Mouth open, gasping, as they try
To beat their personal best,
To improve, transcend

They never can outpace
The thing from which they run:
It's perched on their shoulder
A shade, whispering doom.

Birthday poem (for Gwenllian)

In the blank darkness
Of the icy winter world
Gleams a new pale bud

Airport

Welcome to Heathrow
The world's biggest bus station
Queue here for tickets

Arrivals emerge
Tired, battered, blinking: they can't
Match their meeters' joy

Knots of travellers
Confer about the delays,
faces lined in doubt

One by one the planes
Drop down from the holding loop
Buzzing the M4

The remote chance of
Terrible violence seems to
Worry people more

Than the certainty
Of boredom, chaos, expense:
The glamour of flight