It is 6:30 AM
I have been thinking of first lines for hours
I even considered
Retreading some of the old first lines
I made a pot of Birchall tea
Which brewed as I prepared the bacon
Yet what else escaped my gaze
As I lit the wood burner
I recall I once watched a television programme
About an artist; his flat, and his studio
Were in what has become a fashionable
Part of London; with coffee bars & public bars
He etches, with acids; several layers
He is working on a piece called The Outliers
Which are a set of rocks, at the very end
Of this island of ours, he has been there
In the early morning darkness
We watch the artist, who, with some certainty
Lights a fire, prepares his porridge, makes
Coffee on the stove, and smokes a cigarette
I am reminded of the Yorkshire poet
David Whyte, and his friend's rich experience
Whilst preparing for, and walking on the
El camino de Santiago de Compostela
He tells the story with a certainty
Yet he himself has not yet walked that path
But has written a poetry book called Pilgrims
Perhaps sat at his desk, on his landing at home
We are what we are
We do what we do
We go where we go
It is good that these things are connected
It is also good
That there are disconnections
Room for the imagination to step in
Space for the land of make-believe
To take hold
Time for the half-dreams
On the cusps of waking
On the paths of walking
