Guest Poem by Gordon Scapens

Widely published over many years in numerous magazines, journals, anthologies and competitions. Lives in a suburb of Preston with his wife, who’s friend, critic, muse and editor. Plays acoustic guitar averagely to her singing. Currently preparing a collection.


A colourful fantasy
flung between river banks
splashing a drab winter day.

It wedges its ego
through excited heartbeats
of this wrapped-up walker,
seeming to ask if I know
how to be me.

I feel that the flight
is a zip opening my mind.

I get a feeling of sadness,
perhaps never to lose
about uncertain times.

I feel I’m chasing
something I can’t see
witnessing this event,
where a door has opened
that never existed before,
may now close forever.

The situation is a language
asking who the hell knows
when it’s the last cheer.