Begin

In the first hours

Of rising

Words for no one

But myself

In those first moments of the day

With tea to drink, on my own

In the beginning of the new day

Sat solitary, in my morning meditation

After which

To prepare for the community of writers

To take tea upstairs to my lover

To bathe in a bath, prepared by one and the same

Then to hold onto the goodness

To find faith in those faithful friendships

To become that uniquely alive persona

Who is grateful for the love of love

Support

This is my prayer

A simple silent gift

Both for myself

As also to share, with those who wish to share

It is a non-religious prayer

Because, whilst I am a man of faith

I am not a man of religion

I have no touchstone to god, except my god within

The sky is of many greys

Rolled into clouds, calmly overlapping

The trees are of many, many greens

From the foreground, to the backdrop merging

I pray that these various colours can be seen

That with the differentiation

We can engage, admire, love

Love the complexity of all our visions

The complication of prayer

Comes with the easements, with the corners

Of the wooden barns, of Walt Whitman’s way

Places, where I have never felt truly able to go

Directions

I will not go to where I have already been

Neither to where I know I am not going

I will find a different place in which to breathe

A screen of washing lines, flapping, blowing

Where unbuttoned blouses catch the breeze

Their scents gifted to the atmosphere

I will undo, down on my knees

Those zips to where we all do disappear

I will not wait for those who have not waited

Swing open the four-leaf clover cottage gate

Walk out past all those types who hesitate

In search of that, once romantic, vanquished state

No roads, or tracks, or country lanes

No turning back towards the evergreens

Take firmer steps to see the whooping cranes

Believe in life which, as if forever, unsteadily leans

Setting Up, Setting Out

The audition is passed

As the breeze turns into a wind

This summer is not yet to its last

All sinned thoughts are to be rescinded

To sit among tree and varnished wood

With cobwebs and drainpipe looking on

I thought to buy, thought yes I should

Here to write, to put right all that’s gone wrong

Saturday morning

Yes, freedom is here once more

Sat, at this delightful diminutive desk

Views over Trinity

Then on to those faraway

Imagined sand-strip shores

Angels will be seen riding

Along the big skies next

A new pencil will be procured

To satisfy the writer’s perceived significance

Though truly the need for that is next to naught

Other than anything smoother, will aid the dance

First Time Ever I saw

Nearest is the blossom tree

A few cherry-red leaves

Among the swathes of green

They dance, as if ballet dancers

Encouraged by the breeze

They move with a lover’s sense of joy

At least that is my perception

After reading Mr Palomar

Before Carol Anne Duffy’s Rapture

Sensuous, sensual, sexual, sensational

Curves, movement of wild abandon

A soft-skin smile of surface texture

As if the arm, as if the calf, as if the thigh

No one will ever know; why, or how

As the whispers quieten in stillness

The taller branches

Sway so so willingly behind

It is their courteous, yet dominant serenade

New

A new place in which to write

A fresh notebook, you guessed

Through the window is a morning light

Which falls on my recently purchased desk

The writing surface withdraws

Leaded-light shadows pattern the walls

Diamonds are what I see, what I saw

For it is above the apple tree where I sit so tall

This is to be another writing place

I hope for quite some while

To be decorated in good taste

For the eventual rapturous writing style

I look down onto racks of shoes

Through the wrought-iron bannister

There are no greys, or blues

Also the handrail is faded from its lustre

Aftermath

It is twenty-eight days since I began

All of it at home

Yet, virtually

A good bit of it away

Perhaps I did find more

By staying in my own place

Whilst visiting

Those other fine places

Keeping my distance

Oddly I now feel closer

More of an attachment

To Lavender Barn

Also to Houghton Hall

To the Cholmondeley’s

Home for sculpture, with

James Turell’s Lightscape

We have received news

From our charismatic leader

On the next phase

Of social distancing, together yet apart

There is peace

There is quiet

There is sunshine

There are orderly queues at the DIY store

Let us all hope

That this societal caring

May continue, who knows, maybe

We may grow to love each other more

Norfolk Quartet (4)

In abstensis

I am to leave you

Drive home

Record my movements

Recollect my thoughts

Upload my images

Then to pause, virtually

By the desk

By the computer

By the fullness of past times

Norfolk Quartet (3)

Light before dawn

Light beyond dusk

Light for the silence

Temptations of musk

Light for the noise

Light for the entropy

Light for the continuum

Temptations of rum

Light for the garden

Light for the house

Norfolk Quartet (2)

Quietly, on open marsh

Listen closely

So so easy simply to be

Salt laden air

Enters the nostrils

Oh such memories of joy

Settled, free and easy

Alone, yet not lonely

Waiting for nothing

Except knowing full well

Norfolk Quartet (1)

In abstensis

I came to see you

To walk on your shorelines

To stroll through your Fenlands

To visit your country houses

To place myself

Among your grand estates

I was nourished, virtually

By the seas, by the winds

By the emptiness

 

Diffusion

We all pass this way just the once

Some take on knowledge

Some make confounding statements

But we all pass this way just the once

The fortunate may find fair weather

Enjoy a fortuitous, easy life

Others might continuously struggle

But we all pass this way just the once

There are days when the sandbanks are flooded

There are days when men take sleighs on ice

Then, for the fishermen, the salmon come home

But we all pass this way just the once

Some chap studied to become a solicitor

Some chap stepped into the shoes of Rome

Then the lucky one, dressed in silk, with a silver spoon

But we all pass this way just the once

Infusion

Emptiness

Openness

Freedom

Calm

Space above

Space below

Space

Everywhere around me

A grain of sand indeed

Then another

And another

And another

A continuum

To infinity, where

Eternity will be yours

Within the coming hours

Intrusions

Today I am joining

The Norfolk Coast Path

At the Tower Windmill

I am heading for

Scolt Head Island

National Nature Reserve

Then onwards, on foot

To Brancaster Beach

Where, on another day

I might have played

A round of golf

At Royal West Norfolk GC

Peaceful Conceptions

And so I turn

To the Cistercian Monks of Stift Heiligen

I listen to their chant - Music for Paradise

I put on my coat

The sunlight

No longer gifts its warmth

That is how the days and nights are

Light, dark, light

Warm, cold, warm

Action, stillness, action

And so I dwell

In Paradisium

Giving thanks to its anonymous scribe

I breathe in

I breathe out

The time asks for my preparation

That is how the time of time is

Challenge

Doubt, who coined the word doubt

Apparently it is from circa 1200

And we have the French to thank

But what about what precedes this doubt

What about that arbiter of faith

What does the Bible say on doubt

This from James 1:5-8

For the one who doubts is like

A wave of the sea that is driven

And tossed by the wind

He is a double-minded man

Unstable in all his ways

Is that who I am

When I question this Lavender Barn retreat

Doubtful of my ability to find more

Or to go further into myself

With some vague idea

That even more freedom lies there

Not To Oversell

I think to pare back the day

To edge towards minimalism

Rather than the exuberance

Of what today has brought me

Did I search the right places

Did I forage in the best fields

Is it more than good fortune

Or a response to sound purpose

I have been fed rather well

In body, mind and spirit

I have tasted sweet and sour

And will do so, again and again

Preparation Time

Tonight is meditation by zoom

I am not really prepared

But in a way that’s ok

Because my fellow meditators

Will be fascinated

By the Norfolk cottage

Or Lavender Barn

To give it its official name

Also they will want to know

Exactly what I have been up to

Nevertheless, as I listen

To the Astounding Eyes of Rita

I think it’s time to make a start

First to turn the words into PDF’s

Then to choose the guided meditations

And put them on a playlist

Finally, to choose the audio tracks

For our meditations to music

Done

How good it feels

To accomplish something

Anything...

Self-Reflections

Two hours of playing with video

Does anyone

Like the sight of their own face

Or the sound of their own voice

Do we not all cringe

At the words we wrote

Or the scenes which we imagined

Is it overconfidence

In our ability

Or our proficiency

Have we seen professionals

And thought, oh yes

That looks easy enough

I should be able to do that

Of course timing, timing is everything isn’t it

Knowing when to pause

Where to take a breath

Or when to smile

And turn towards the camera

Although to do that I would have to learn my lines

And memory is not my strong point is it, no it is not

Burnside

I didn’t know you as a non-believer

I don’t really know you as a poet

Yet of late I have empathised

With your words, and their layout

Indeed I took your Desserts

To our Friday Morning Poet’s Salon

Where the craquelure

Was inquisitively peeled back

Pointers

I take tea

With lemon drizzle cake

In the stables cafe

The crockery is exemplary

White and blue

Always a favoured pairing

Fresh flowers on the table

A nice touch

Why not do it more at home

I will buy a vase

For sure there will be a gift shop

Though alas, there were no vases

Frame

Place and time

Time and place

Shade and light

Light and shade

Remember the experience

Store away the details

Give sufficient weight

To the ambiances

Of your surroundings

Of your heart

Of your mind

Of your temple in the sky

Be taken by the muse

Be offered up

To the lines of freedom

To the limitations of lovers

Tell them, that you have been there

Say that you were not alone

Yet you cannot say who you met there

For truly, they will never, ever know

Place And Time

Thankfully it is not a long walk

To Richard Long’s A Line in Norfolk

Indeed it is right outside the front door

I stride out the eighty or so metres

Of Norfolk Carrstone, whose orange clay

Contrasts markedly with Mr Cholmondeley’s

Sparkling green, well-manicured lawn

I wonder if the turf might in fact be laid

On a foundation of such well-weighted stone

Eventually I call this sculpture Number One

And think this is how a drone camera

Might picture it from the sky

After striding its length I meander

To all four corners, to gain some distance

To see another light, to gather another perspective

I remember Richard’s grey slate stones

Laid out onto the top floor of a city centre gallery

And cannot help but think; this is a much better place

Further along I see Full Moon Circle

It is made of a similar material to the one I saw in Leeds

Which I now think rather suited its cosmopolitan surroundings

Cast In

Stephen Cox’s Interior Space

Does not do it for me

Which is odd, for he has

That ability, that experience

To transport me around the world

But, at this moment in time

Egypt is not where

I would choose to be

Of course, to peer into the darkness

To find myself within the solid mass

In the perusal of nothingness

Well, yes that does enchant

And calms, and if I stayed long enough

I may feel more

I may grow into the recognition

I may even come on board

Favoured Words

I am left with the remnants

Of James Turrel’s Lightscape exhibition

But fortunately I am led

To a Youtube conversation

Between the lucid artist

And his enquiring patron for the season

They talk of going inside self

With your meditation

(Right up my street)

Light is not formed

Like clay, or wax

Nor sculpted like wood or stone

(Did I tell you I was an Electrical Engineer

Who specialised in lighting)

The rules are different

Paint and light

Do not merge in the same ways

Their resulting colours

Are not in anyway the same

(No, I did not know that)

Using light to create spaces

100 sky spaces are created

Across all the continents

We are made for twilight

Not the bright light of midday

(Really)

Just as in the way that Rothko

Has colour coming out of darkness

Twilight arrives before sunrise

Twilight arrives after sunset

(I always liked Rothko)

The love of how change happens

You, on your island

Have a maritime sky

The softness of which

Is truly beautiful

(I so so agree with his every word)

 

Believe It Or Not

I am more at home

With Richard Long’s

White Deer Circle

Which fronts an expanse

Of grass, bordered by oaks

Of many years standing

This is an emblem

Of one man’s idea

Fashioned against

Another man’s idea

Several generations apart

Or so one is led to believe

On first impressions

The huge, upturned

Rooted tree stumps

Are placed, more or less

Where the village of Houghton

Once stood, that is until

Sir Robert Walpole

Had it moved a little further away

From his imposing Palladian mansion

Apparently

Or so others say

It is an uncanny echo

Of Seahenge, discovered

On a nearby beach in 1998

However, today’s artist

Professes to have no such

Knowledge, so puts it down

To sheer coincidence

Work it Out

I am in a small garden

Looking at Jeppe Hein’s

Waterflame

It is surreal

Almost beyond comprehension

Water and flame at one together

Maybe the artist

Was a chemist, or a physicist

Or a close relation

Of Guy Fawkes

Described elsewhere as:

Opposing elements co-existing

To create a paradoxical

Visual effect in an

Illusion of cooperative relationship

I too was taken

But think that I partially

Understand

The slights of hand

Of both of these magician’s tricks

Just Do It

I have had an idea

For when I return home

I have named it

Wednesday Afternoon Being Creative

It’s a sort of going back

But also a fast forwards

Yes it is to stimulate the creation of poetry

But also, art and photography, etcetera, etcetera

To try to pull together

A few of the creative types

From roundabouts and hereabouts

Who can encourage others to be creative

I don’t expect Anish Kapoor

Or James Turrell or Richard Long

Or any of those other major artists

Whose work can be seen at Houghton Hall

But maybe the local musicians

And poets and painters

And trekkers and photographers

Will come along to tell a tale

We too may think of specific spaces

Where our art may be displayed

Although of course that must wait

Until we are freed from lockdown

 

Name On Name

Today I intend to go

To Houghton Hall

The home of

The Cholmondeley's

Oh how I love that name

But first for breakfast

Bacon, two fried eggs

Toast and beans

Yes, how much better than being

The Fourth Earl of Nidderdale

To be the Buckminster Fuller

Of Cholmondeley

MOD Sculthorpe

And RAF Sculthorpe

Are both nearby

Perhaps once strategic bases

Yes, landing sites

For Sandringham Estate

Or for the first Prime Minister

Of Great Britain

But first for breakfast

Bacon, two fried eggs

Toast and beans

Should be fine

The Cholmondeley’s

Have had a presence

At Houghton Hall

Since the first Marquess

Inherited the place

In the 18th century

I make that to be

Quite a good while ago

Lord Cholmondeley

Was educated at Eton

And studied

At the Sorbonne, lucky lad

But first for breakfast

Bacon, two fried eggs

Toast and beans

Should be fine

Now he is married

To Rose Hanbury

They have two boys

And a daughter named Iris

But first for breakfast

Bacon, two fried eggs

Toast and beans

Should be fine

For a day which

Will mostly be spent

Out of doors

In the Cholmondeley’s garden

 

Dust On Dust

Where did religion go wrong

My grandma, of the Methodist Chapel

Fervently sang each and every song

I had no doubts as a young man

That I would marry in church

It was, as they say, already in the can

Yet I did show a certain lack of respect

A couple of drinks before the service

Which any self-aware vicar would detect

It is true my children went to Sunday school

And both were duly christened

As if ordained by some ancient familial rule

My daughter followed a similar pathway

Married in church (after a period of forced attendance)

Her children christened, on a parish christening day

Yet neither I nor my children regularly attend

In fact in my case hardly ever

Except the Christmas Mass, on which we all do depend

But this is ceremony, not belief

This is the absence of practice

From which we have taken our relief

The song books and the prayer books

Are left bereft and unused, laid

In the cases, in the nannies and the crooks

These buildings once so filled with buoyant life

Have let themselves be emptied

Foraging instead the paths of argument and strife

Fame

Fifteen minutes later

I pull into the Sandringham Estate car park

Already I know that this is my kind of place

I will take lunch in their cafe restaurant

But first to let the gardens overwhelm me

Down, through the avenue of limes, to the Buddha

Then a stroll, by the dark brown waters

Which hereabouts they choose to call lakes

I have the Whitby breaded whole-tail scampi

With a bottle of beer-shandy

Due to my latest diet I don’t do dessert

Though I am calling in at EH Prior & Sons, later

But no rush, not for now, it is a time to dwell, to look around

Find a quiet bench, or a seat under a pergola 

Actually I stumble upon St Mary Magdalene Church

Which is bound to do something for me

Dust behind the door

Dust on the beams and lintels

A real sniff of the worship of royalty

Outside the headstones are arranged in rows

Back inside, I do take a few moments

Sit on a pew beneath a stained glass window

Look forwards to the altar, my view

Obscured, by tourists just like me

It is not a big place, but does look cared for

As it ought to be, if our princesses

Are to be christened here, as was

The nation’s favourite, the late Princess Diana

 

Arrive Be Depart

I drive down Beach Road in Heacham

Park up, on the roadside, just before the public toilets

I have it in mind to walk on the sands

For an hour or so; a time simply to be

Getting ready to head off to Sandringham Estate

I take the camera, in its bag, out of the car boot

Check the Four-Hundred zoom lens is attached

The beach is gated, with a large, welded, angle iron affair

With such a dearth of caravans

Is it to stop joy riders joy riding on the beach

Yes, there are masses of mobile homes

Laid out in a maximisation of space sort of way

Just like Lincolnshire, or anywhere else I guess

I stroll rather than walk, meander even

As the sea defences become ever more apparent

I carry on, as far as what I take to be

A stretch of fresh water

A chap in a sleeveless, bright-yellow vest

Swigs from a can of lager, his military style camouflage shorts

Stand him out as someone who is here on vacation, always

South Beach Road runs out into a cart track

Although it does return to where my car is parked

Why have I been here? What have I left behind?

What is there which pulls me to nowhere?

Other than to be beside, and to look at the sea

I don’t go into the cafe

How much cake can one eat

Instead I climb into my welcoming limousine

The stereo plays my favourite music

This is more like the escape that I was made for

Prepare

A good night’s sleep

Meditation with a cup of tea

Listening to Temple of the Heart

Writing up my response to Haiku Minds

Vulnerability

I am, you are, we together

Separate, or apart, or close up close

Bath time

Listening to the Procul Harum playlist

Including Gary Moore, making one feel

Highly nostalgic; his blues songs are contagious

A new shirt for a new day

Foot cream, or heal balm in my case

Applied liberally, before

Putting on the colour-burst cotton socks

Then it is off to Norfolk Lavender

For a Full-English breakfast

Cooked to perfection, and served with a smile

In their still quiet restaurant

I will buy a memento from the gift shop

But just what, well that will have to wait

Until after the grilled and seasoned tomato

And the thick toast with lashings of butter

A good start to the day

Welcomed with appreciation

Listening to Start of the Week

Writing down my streamlined thoughts

Vulnerability

I am, we are, you are

Even with the lavender cushions

Hi

I am writing to let you know that I am here

I was about halfway here when I thought

That I would like to write you a letter, tonight

It is a good place, Lavender Barn that is

For, as yet, I haven’t been out into the town

I have been writing, so from that point of view

The retreat is meeting its purpose square on

Whether the writing will be any good, or

Whether you will care for it, well only time will tell

Of course there is a resonance with our Norfolk trip

To see the pink-footed geese in the dawn frost

That was a good trip wasn’t it; do you remember

Maggi Hambling’s sculpture on the beach

You and your friend trying on hats

You must have been in that shop for a full hour

And I am pretty sure that you didn’t buy anything

Talking of shopping, I am going to Norfolk Lavender

Possibly for breakfast, tomorrow, if the weather holds

Though I have a vague recollection of being disappointed

During our last visit there, but I can’t quite recall why

I have two beds to choose from, but both will feel empty

Without you

All my love

Christopher

xxx

Settling In

I have had my bath

And my cottage pie

Already I am in my pyjamas

And dressing gown

(Bought especially for the trip)

I am comfortable

Though the early excitement is fading

But this place is a good choice

I say to myself

(I say that often)

I have not meditated yet

But I will do

Probably sat on a dining chair

By the window, with the curtains drawn

(It needs to be a calm place)

First I have the urge to write a letter

Is it too soon

No, it is not too soon, get on with it

Stop procrastinating

(Procrastination is my number one skill)

I don’t sit at the dining table

To write the letter

That would infer formality

Instead, I am on the rattan settee

And I do gaze into the warming wood-burner

Sites

There are a few places in which to write

I will, for sure, try them all

The rattan set

Of two armchairs and a settee

Faces the fireplace

That might well be

My early morning and late evening

Writing place

The two mock-leather Tub chairs

With their own side table

That may become a favourite

Certainly for writing

With a pot of coffee

And a slice of cake

The dining area seems quite formal

With six modern straight back chairs

But it is by the French window

So maybe a place for editing

With a computer on the table

A breeze at my back, from the freely open door

The stairs are adorned

With a metal sculpture

Of pink-footed geese in flight

For certain I will sit here, and imagine

Those dawn RSPB visitations we made

Further down the coast