Nick Whittle Artist




Brixton Blues Bus Kiss


For Taava

Full Moon

Life Jacket


My Land

The Annunciation

Under the Sun

Watching Fireflies


Without a warning
the Riley never returned.
It disappeared
from our lives.
And the dogs fell silent
every night
lying at the porch door
listening patiently
waiting for a sign
of presence.

Summer shivered
and you quickly changed tense
becoming memories
with no time
to edit.

And now
I remember
blocksalt, spices and vinegar
stinging cuts and watering eyes
peeling shallots
and begging a stocking
from mom
to tie-up spices
and pack Kilner jars.

And then
we climbed trees
carefully picking apples
and pears
pocketing the best
for later.
But first we would wrap
in paper
packing large drums
to preserve
another day.

thirty years
have passed
trying to write
about you
and me.

every Sunday
in my mother’s parish
I looked up at you
watching time
kneeling without hope
without communion
and now
you are gone
with tinkerbell
I will never know

And finally
we waited
for the Manchester train
a nervous handshake
became an embrace
and all that was never said
the doors began to slam
a whistle blew
and finally
I knew your love.