all breakfast?

The muse had sent virtual sustenance: a simple bowl of porridge supporting a few red raspberries. The image nourished my desk-bound soul.

Another Tube Poem: Tunnel Days

They who serve the suction of daybreak, beneath the earth, beneath the dew, beneath the kitchens where there’s burning toast and grapefruit, bury, with the morning light, their hope of hearing birdsong. — My commuting is less than a tenth of many who live and work in London. But when I am on the move,