Winding Down

Jacques & Michelle

In Neptune’s garden

John & Sheri

In Neptune’s garden

Christopher & Kate

In Neptune’s garden

Altogether now

Altogether now

All you need is love

All you need is love

In the hotel Pendini

By the Republic Square

Listening to Rossini

Everyone who is anyone

Has visited there

Yes, it is true

I am here, with treats

Take it easy won’t you

For I have reserved

The better seats

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Master

You are the painter of silence

Yet it is not so silent here

You are here, amongst the branch

Of architecture as environment

I would have liked to sit in silence

With your painting of vases

With your quiet accommodation

Of house and nature, at one in one

Else how could I appreciate

The stillness, the calm

The distinction of a settled peace

Laid out for others to follow

Next we go to the gardens

An English artist from Germany

One of the young British school

Who defected, to make his own mark

Of course there may

Have to be vanilla gelatos

With espressos

Along the way

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Prime Ordeal

It’s not so much

How you feel

In the middle of the night

It’s not so much

How you see

As you search for second sight

All that’s left

Is all that’s left

All that’s gone before

Has gone before

It’s not so much

How you smile

When everything is alright

It’s not so much

How you squeeze

When the pheromones alight

All that’s here

Is all that’s here

All that’s new

Is all that’s new

It’s not so much

How you close

If the time is tight

It’s not so much

How you arose

When the sign said flight

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Mimicry

From the Tuscany hills

To the city of Florence

From the paying of bills

To the trials of intolerance

From the pool of azure

To the church of marble

From religion so sure

To the saints who garble

From the room without heat

To the bed with mosquitoes

From the clean white sheet

To the red blood of the veto’s

From glass beads on lampshades

To a bookcase filled with volumes

From Paul&Shark first grades

To magic bells with their tunes

From a following of Rembrandt

To a date with Captain Corelli

From a reading by Kant

To the slippers of George Melly

From horse hooves on cobbles

To a courtiers clean stables

From floors with their wobbles

To the starlights of the fables

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Outlook

By the blue pool

With azure reflections

On the Tuscany

The Tuscany hillside

Five kilometres

From the road

On the dirt track

Past the stables

Olive trees

Of all ages

By the chateau

Down the valley

Man and wife now

Married just then

By the chateau

Down the valley

Silver clouds

With silver linings

Sky of blue

Washes the grey away

Swifts and swallows

Diving and darting

Offering pleasure

To those who stay

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Country Rose

I bless this meditation

I say thanks for this meditation

In the morning sunlight

Before the dark cloud

Settles over me

There are ducks, there are geese

Birdsong, and bees

The meadow is fragrant

Awash with poppies and mint

The grass is free of mowing

The windmills are not for turning

As I close off the meditation

Instead it is the sun

Which returns the world’s energy

To my pleasurable locale

Swallows dart and dive

They climb, and they plunge

As I too purge, and cover over

Our synchronicity though

Is not there for all to see

The poems say what the poems say

I have no means

To express deeper or higher thoughts

Although my two-tone personality

Is, for the moment, perfectly relaxed

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Act One: Scene One

One is a memory, one is a betrayal.

I am on the hilltop, by a pool beside the olive trees

There is a lady talking with a prospective client

She is excelling at selling:

The chateau is three thousand euros for the day

And five hundred euros for the pool

The chapel is a thousand euros

Or fifteen hundred if decorated

Everything it seems is ‘extra’

I expect that soon

The gentleman will cease

Asking his leading questions

You want food?

Yes, that will be extra

Good food, or very good food

That also is extra

He says that he, and his wife to be

Want to give a good impression

He doesn’t ask, but I fear

That the ‘good impression’ may also be an extra

Ha, the guest rooms

Yes, they are also an additional cost

And the staff?

Well, of course, they are charged by the hour!

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56040 Province of Pisa

The old, withered, oak stump

Is surrounded by new life

New saplings are growing

The cockerel crows

Preparations are in progress

Chairs and tables moved around

Rosemary, collected and bottled in oil

Swimming pool surface cleaned

Soon it will be the time

For the (casual dress) rehearsal

With couple and celebrant

Each learning their expected lines

I am down the lane

Round the back of the hotel

I listen to birdsong

I photograph the wild flowers

There are windmills on the skyline

Hillsides are both near, and far distant

Some being populated with cypress trees

Who then, would doubt that this is beauty

Today there is a sun

The sky is far more blue than grey

Of course it won’t always be this way

But for the moment let us be thankful

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Afternoon

Above the clouds 

Clear blue sky

‘Customs Union’ 

Is in the news

But for now 

Free passage 

Well

Not exactly free

Indeed

Quite the opposite actually 

But you do get my drift 

Don’t you

Lauri Loft

No.2 via Catarina

Four people ascend serially

In the one-person lift

Two couples

Each pair

Having their own bedroom

With en-suite bathroom

Swiftly we are out onto the street

Where we pause for gelato ice-creams

One each is chosen:

Pistachio, pear, mango, and milk

Next it is a short stroll

Down the cobbled road

To the rear

Of the leaning tower

Tickets are purchased

For the cathedral

Also

For the ‘Place of Miracles’

Followed by a few words

To confirm the stasis

Or the stability

Of the lean

 

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Steal What Else There Is To Steal + My Own Fair Hand A Wayward Strand

The wretched pace of saving face

No more than a single drink

What I’ve become, by staying shtum

Does not stand to rhyme nor reason

The hamster wheel and electric eel

Steal what else there is to steal

Seal the casket, with neoprene gasket

It is mornings which are the worst

My own collusion brings self delusion

I would be better somewhere safe

The solitary walker, the midnight stalker

My past life led from reel to reel

Magic Numbers midnight slumbers

My mind can make a ready meal

As you walk away, just another day

For my insides out to slyly feel

Limpet rocks and lifetime stock

Shock the sense to deal

Without compassion, absolute of ration

Crock a wound to heal

One day at a time, a find sublime

A mantra as I calmly kneel

Shee Vo Hum, Shee Vo Hum, Shee Vo Hum

Under my breath, it is the breath I steal

How long I’ve tried, how close I’ve cried

Hopeless as those past gestations peel

Another bell, the ringers tell

Scope to wreck my leafy land of zeal

My own fair hand, a wayward strand

I came across altogether unreal

My golden voice, my freedom’s choice

Ponderous, before eventually I yield

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For Me My Stem It Said So

Again then

My stem

Stated not to name

Tension climbs the spine

Pulls right across the shoulder

Brought on by

Being of the bold

In the untold middle of nowhere

The water

Runs slowly into 

The drain below

Below the wisteria

Below the bamboo cane

The clay and slate rotate

In some forbade rectangle

Emigrate

It’s not too late 

For you and Mr. Bojangles

A corner light, a mistook sight

Mistletoes of Spanish rain

Temeraire from County Clare

The swollen peace there to sustain

The clock ticks

The room is cold

Olden days

Are over

Silence is the pastime

Write once more the last rhyme

Onward goes the beach wise drover

With the loss of heather and clover

Carriages and crucibles

Rubies and cubicles

Statuettes of liberation

The siren and the seagull

Drift through shores of evil

From wave to wave

They crave

Until the neaps

Are fair full

Carved wood

Fallen leaf 

Compost 

By the thrush

It is no shame

Again then

Not to name

For me

My stem

It said so

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On Every Sunday Of The Year

Tick tock, drip drop

Clocks gong in the garden

Chitter chatter

Bach plays a cantata

Newly scribed

Fairly scattered

On every 

Sunday of the year

Be dur a dub

Per dup

Ber dub 

A dup, purr dup

Mathematician

Of the counterpoint

On every 

Sunday of the year

Lah la de la

Di lad

E la, lad

A la de dee

Introvert

Invert of controversy

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The National Game Of Men Insane

Out of the box, it falls onto the floor it owns

A photograph; black & white football stripe

A sight to see forty years odd, and ripe

Before the scars, the tissues torn

The cortisone injections

A time of legends and football unshackled

Cindered covered parkland in skilful sin

Sticking the boot in

Cut tight skin on padded shin

The premeditated, berated

Serrated sliding tackle

Youths prepared for battle

Marsden wreck on Monday night

Little love lost; local league, a game, a fight

Soccer; it’s like this from Stockport to Seattle

Later; time for pints in the bar

The bus to town, remember to score

Chasing starts; toes touch the dance floor

Foes in frolic and fellowship with. Those

Infamous football stars

Back home

All over for another season

They visit, we visit

We don’t need much reason

Keeps us cut to the bone

We’ve kicked and spit; breathed our last

Put our arms around each other, inane

The national game of men insane

Caught up, as the red mist

Falls upon our past

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So Swift

The painter paints

Lays oil upon his canvas

Sees further than the sky

His aim never wanes

His picture only to be

For life, for liveliness

To have a new edge

Such that you and I

Can wonder more

At the world about us

My words though to stay

Are by compare

So swift; here, and then away

No pause to escape delay

In sands of time perhaps

But for now; a poem for this day

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The Country In City Clothes

There were forty-two

Sheep in the field

Forty-two

Or forty-three

Should it matter

You could count

Them in a photograph

If it is of such importance

If you wish

Pull on your Wellingtons

Plunge into the flooded mud

At the bog end bit of the field

By the stream

If that helps

Because I just wondered

If you would truly enjoy to sink

Cars drive by

Every morning

In sun, in rain

Or as today, today…

The field before the fallen tree

A few years ago now

The flowers too, surely

They will in turn die

A lonely walk this

The country in city clothes

Black on green, red on brown

The flowered lapel

It is the final story

This, and the tears

Which somehow are

Always to follow later

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Sway And Wave A Last Goodbye

One by one the songbirds sing

their long and last good morrows

As heads of corn they sway

and wave their last goodbye

Acid laughter sings a little longer

No more, no, no more sorrows

Newborn generation’s endless tears

of parted love they cry

One by one the songbirds sing

As heads of corn they sway

and wave a last goodbye

Neon lights fall back

into the welcome warm dark shadow

Moments torn, but always they had to try

Once more inside that anguish

One more night

deep inside the born-again rebirth

No less painful

yet the gift of life is a worthy fight

One by one

The songbirds sing

Their long and last good morrow

One by one

The songbirds sing

Where now our matron

our only solid stone

our true soul mother

Where is she

to calm the madness

To turn down beds

and give homage

to the polished tiles glimmer

The gold oak doors are opened

We see the children deep inside

Safe, in far away full night’s sleep

One by one the songbirds sing

One by one the songbirds sing

We walk away

with hands inside our pockets

We walk away

under the silver, middle-night moon

One by one the songbirds sing

their long and last good morrow

One by one the songbirds sing

As heads of corn they sway

and wave a last goodbye

And one by one they sway

and wave a last goodbye

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A Golden Daffodil And A Fluorescent Raspberry

I want to talk of light

Light on the field

Northern Light

Cold light

Light to cut through

On its way from the west

Across the clear blue sky

Deep on

Into the green field

Up the valley side

Over the five bar gate

An entrance made

For the light underfoot

Stage light

Stage fright and spotlight

Hold tight now

Light, let there be light

Light of a golden daffodil

And a fluorescent raspberry

For the northerner’s midnight plot

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On The Edge Of Dreams

Cereals and hallucinations

On the edge of dreams

And dangerous situations

As the rainbow skies grieve

The piano plays a soft sonata

Blue is up, and now I leave

Woken moments

Stolen times of long ago

Celebration that’s the word I’m after

Broken binds

Wheel the fault-lines of sorrow

Footprints in sand, clay, silica, snow

Sat on the veranda

Down in the Savannah

Prints of indelible flowers

Insoluble

Earth mother

Surely to show

Snow melts

On the photograph

Steam comes to life

Sliding down the walls

Words on wires

A message to laughter

Frigid with frustration

Madness, caught out

In isolation

Hallucinatory progress

From the bedhead

On the edge of dreams

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Without Pavements

The piano played

The sun rose

Frost covered

The forest

And the moor

Down

Into the shade

Slowly up the hill

Congested

Single roads

Without pavements

Around the corner

Into the vista

The whole world

Before we go

Over the horizon

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Is It Fair To Thank You

Is it fair

To say thank you

For this broken heart

Without such pain

I may have forgotten

The passion

The exceptional

Gifts of love

Of sensual sensation

Moved by words

By pictures

By place

By time

By the moment

Of images

Imagined

Splashes of water

Autumn leaf’s falling

Winter’s morning

Snow 

Ice

Frost

Sun

Into recovery

To lose hold

Of the intensity

Inarticulate insensitivity

Of bruise

Of tear

Of rip

Scratch

Torment

Gouge

Bully 

Betray

Pray

If to hold

To be so bold

To be so so soon

Time

For more to life

Yet left alone 

Alone to discover

Fair it is

In fact I insist

Thank you

I say, thank you

For my broken heart

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The Oasis Of Escape

There’s a turn up for the book:

That monasteries began

As an oasis

An escape from the submission

To the solitude of

The desert

And now

In search of peace

Drawn to the solitude

Drawn to the monastery

From the oasis of escape

That is life

Why leaf

Where riot

Why peace

Where quiet

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