A Pome a Day for a Year

A long time ago, before I discovered treasure,
many late evenings would instead
be subsumed in the moonlight of Finchley Central.

Life had grown tougher, bills mountainous,
and independence cut short by poor planning,
but salvation lay at the end of a car journey.

A small Finchley Central flat,
roof sloped and rooms triangular,
my height preventing all but stooping
except for one small golden spot.

The kitchen skylight in unassuming glory,
with window pane wound wide,
I perched out like cartoon giraffe
from comical circus train.

Standing in thick air, darkness above
while lights of car and person pinprick
the night, I would feel content and drift.

My glassy stare like a woollen blanket
covering my psyche and dreams of detectives
watching over a desperate city protruding
into my conscious.

Time stopped and would dare me to move,
to restart the society under my feet,
but all my wishes remained the same;
to keep this moment solid.