Even when there seems to be
So little to write of
Then perhaps to remember flying the kite
Or to think of memories to write thereof
Some days you have to rely on
Brian Ferry singing
Or to light the Jasmine, Chamomile
And Rosewood candle
Especially if it is too far to walk
To hear the bells a-ringing
You can rest in your lounge
Wearing slipper or sandal
Some ways you know are shorter
And some ways ever longer
The garden path twists and turns
Beneath the blossom tree
The tree whose leaves and blossoms
Once were stronger
Before the autumn and the winter
Asked that they go free
There isn’t anywhere really
For this poem to go to
My mind being freed
Of all thoughts and repercussions
So back to the cricket field
To recall your boundary throw
Or to football in the snow
After negative family discussions
Sometimes the past
Is not the cure-all after all
When the images do not bring
Good cheer to the game
Better then to let the present
Make a welcome call
When what is to see
Is the beauty of the beautiful flame
Some days the song is just right
How to say, somewhat tight
Is it that old Tom Waits, in a most
Ingeniously theatrical guise
A life reflected from Belgrade
Out and onto the Eastern light
Giving indeterminate pleasures
Such is the entertainer’s prize
Some ways you have to begin
With your hands in the sands
The roads to the beaches
Having been rolled over and over
Silver Birch and Aspen become
The joy-spreading strands
After the sycamore and oaks
Over by the four-leaf clover
The wasn’t really anywhere
For this old poem to try to go
And who else will hear, or see
Or know of the background
So back to the photographs
And the old stories going slow
Or the magnanimity of the roar
Of the less than silent sound
 |
| Christopher's Collected Works |
