Where is the going going to
In the straight lines
In the squares
In the cubes
And why wear a shirt
With flowers in pink and blue
With buttons in pink and blue
With turn up cuffs, in pink and blue
As if a contradiction
To contradict the pain
In the upper back and neck
And in the left side frozen shoulder
Yet no more at odds
Than to be listening to Arvo Part
Or reading Jean Jacques Rousseau’s
Reveries of the Solitary Walker
30 months, or thereabouts
Most don’t last so long
And most don’t generate
So many contradictory words
Strong bonds were made
Talk of a Wednesday family
Which resonates, yet does not mean
Quite the same to all nations
So, among this morning’s words
I find: sadness, hurt, anger
Dismay, disappointment, loyalty
Misunderstandings, dismissal
Altogether they add up to a confusion
Which does resonate, and means the same
Across all leagues, across all divisions:
Where did we lose our way
Where and when did the round ball
And the tribes of tribal supporters
Get handed over to the international money men
For their controlling stamp of disapproval
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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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