Not yet the half-light
Though neither still the brightness
Not yet knowing what I might achieve
Though neither still to fend off the dullness
Shadows, flames, and carrier bags
Jumpers, and presents
Familiar names written on tags
A stillness, and a breeze
A union flag, in flight
Beyond those trees without leaves
The nuance, of a germ, of an idea
Close on to nostalgia
Yet just far enough away
Walking across the field
There and back
To Angel Barn
In a corner of Eden
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I read, and write out
Mimi Khalvati’s poem The Valley
And of course, I am transported
Back to Holmfirth
Back to the Holme Valley
And to the many tributaries
Or rifts, which feed into the centre
I remember especially
One mid summers afternoon
Walking down from Cartworth Moor
Back towards my mothers
Council house at Cinderhills
I was in love at the time
Though my lover was across the sea
I was removed, to stop
Besides a dry stone wall
Where I found a four leaf clover
More importantly, I found a peace
A time, and place, to write a poem
Which I thought at the time to be of love
Yet, looking back, in truth
It may have been pure self-indulgence
Not that now I think that to be a bad thing
Not as a poet at any rate
Yet, for a lover, perhaps more care was called for
In explaining, with some equanimity, to my lover
My love of the beauty of this valley
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There is the pain
It is there all the while
Yet see how I smile
That you might ask
How am I keeping
Yes, it is true
It does keep me
From sleeping
Yet see how I am lightened
By your offer of tea
No, the despair
Does not quite
Turn to my weeping
Instead, I write
On matters of love
I try to repair
Yes simply as if
I am reaping
To furnish with light
The missives of love
There is the pain
As if climbing the stile
Yet just see how I smile
That you ask, sympathetically
How it is that I am needing
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Last night I watched
Jiska Rickels’ film 4 Elements
I am now able to tell you
That I personally have no desire
To be a forest firefighter
Or a deep sea fisherman
Neither a miner in Germany
Or anywhere else for that matter
Finally, I would not wish
To undertake the training necessary
To become a space astronaut
I am happy to write
From the comfort of my armchair
Or to make a sketch, in a coffee shop
Yes I am ok to say
How I wish that Mrs Thatcher
Had not closed down the mines
And the shipyards
But I would not wish my sons
Nor I, to be in those professions
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I come back to this room
I come back to this room
Where a few minutes ago
I was listening to David Whyte
Listening to David Whyte read his poetry
As well as him telling a fine tale
About himself, and John O’Donohue
Talking of to go against yourself
Go against yourself - a neat Irish phrase
And, or so it seems to me
One not entirely at odds with
Being told not to interfere
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