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

Landed

This is an Italian tile

And wood floor kind of establishment

With lots of exposed brickwork

It is capable of holding six people

But I am on my own

I like it that way, I can spread out

The lavender is not here

It is in the next village along

Heacham - home to Norfolk Lavender

Not Keynsham spelt K-E-Y-N-S-H-A-M

The home of Horace Batchelor

If you know him you have heard him

Back to the barn

With its substantial feature fireplace

Complete with log-burner

And the double-turn, hand crafted

Oak staircase which is fully open

To the vaulted ceiling above

On into the kitchen

With its impressive double cooker

Housed in a mock chimney

Yes, Christopher

A good choice

Now for the roll top bath

 

Outward Bound

It is eighty miles, just about

To Dersingham

A steady Sunday afternoon drive

Check-in is from four PM

Boston, unusually

Is quiet and easily navigated

There appears to be little or no

Police presence thus far

I think to shop at Sainsbury’s Kings Lynn

But change my mind, no, not today

Instead to press on; turn up the stereo

I pull into Lavender Barn at four-fifteen

Apparently, so my host tells me

We are on the flight path of the pink-footed geese

Also close by there is the Sandringham Estate

Although it was closed last time I called

Now that the courtesies

And the bonhomie are over

I can make a pot of tea

Then run a bath

For one must be adequately prepared

If one is to write productively

And that is the intention

For these few days in Norfolk

Locked Up

They were married in prison

He said

What about conjugal rights

She said

Good to know

How the male and female minds flow

In the dinner-party conversations

Bringing a lightness to life

That I did not contribute

Says more

About my introversion

Than about

My holding no point of view

Make yourself good first

Before you work on others

Might have been my contribution

Progressions

Distilled into the Day

Four AM - evening primroses

Six AM - Artists Words

Eight AM - bathing with Pavarotti

Ten AM - writing in the Poet’s Salon

Instilled with the Light

White Waves by LS Lowry

The White Album, by The Beatles

Shopping in White Stuff

A Whiter Shade Of Pale by Procul Harum

Made still by movement

Dance of the sugar plum fairy

Charge of the light brigade

Rage against the machine

Tip toe through the tulips

Emotive with song’s emotions

One Red Rose Forever

The Last Of The English Roses

I’ll Pick A Rose For My Rose

I Never Promised You A Rose Garden

Sonar Sensibilities

This is the day for the smile to return

The day for a clear mind with clear thoughts

This is the day when the sensitivities return

The day for a finer feel, to feel with

A vale with a stream of cool, clear, sparkling water

A willow tree, with adequate cover for tranquility

An open collared shirt, with unbuttoned sleeves

A pathway which leads to quiet open countryside 

This is the day for a rill, or a zen garden

This is the day for a bench, or a meditation seat

This is the day for full-on blue skies overhead

This is the day for whispers on the cool breeze

A beach, with a wave of azure-blue salt water

A machair with an uneven track beside the dunes

A flag with a sign that says; yes, you are welcome

A gallery where the artist tells you his own story

Flip Side

That fine line

Between seeing people

And being entirely lonely

That small immeasurable distance

Between a welcome hug

And a goodbye kiss

Those careful, yet harsh words

Contrasting love

With friendship

Those difficult looks

Between may I join you

And please stay away

Then the happiness

In bright sunshine

Or incessant pouring rain

Then the joy

In peaceful mind

Or ever present mind

Your Space

Six weeks of full-on weather

No ferries

No aeroplanes

No food deliveries

No provisions landed

Six weeks of full-on sun

Endless football

Endless streams of sunlight

Endless lager beer

Endless vacations

Six weeks of your four thousand

You do the maths

You do the contemplation

You work out the hours of stillness

You do the truth

Cut Your Cloth

After a while I return

Fairly quickly, from determining

That the Fair Isles are not for me

Although now more understanding 

Of the difficulty

To order the handmade pullover

These days it is the cruise ships

Whose needs are met first and foremost

They are the regular sources of income

And although they are here today

And gone tomorrow

That is no bad thing; to feed

The instantly gratified well-off clientele

No bickering, no bartering, and

Never, ever, is anything sent back

In Place Of God

It is you that are

Will it, say it

I am, I am, I am

It is you

Who walks beside the stream

It is you

Who sits on the bench to ponder

It is you

Who watches the leaves on the tree

Become disconnected

Before floating to the ground

That it is you

Let that give you solace

Let that give you strength

Let that give you a sense of direction

You, you who are your own faith

There is no other force

Nothing mythical, biblical

Or otherwise

But there is you

You are, you are, you are

Awareness Of A Longer Pause

My midday garden meditation

Is quietly interrupted

The iPad has overheated

It needs to cool down before I can carry on

The screen says Emergency, with exclamation mark

Though I think that is a slight exaggeration

Indeed, what it actually means

Is that for a short while

I meditated without any spoken word guidance

Then I took up my paper notebook and pencil

To write out these few words

Words for my own personal record of the silence

Indeed a record, of my personal reaction

To the Emergency, which of course

Had been of my own making

For it was I who placed the iPad on the seat

In the direct glare of the extreme heat

Of the sun which we are witnessing at the moment

Why Not Thoughts

How far might I go away

How deep into myself am I able to delve

In that one moment, of white light seen

Is all to be held

Is all to be revealed

The twisted tumult of torn heart strings

The frayed edges of a slowly dissolving mind

The darkness incorporated into the not knowing

The blind ambition of the not believing

Such calamity that the past is behind us

How distant might I become

How uncertain within myself of my own capabilities

In that one, one of many million similar moments

Are all mishaps to be seen

Are all hopes or dreams to be dashed

Small Observations

The painter and decorator listens to music on his transistor radio, as he leans from his ladder, to paint the upstairs sash windows a high gloss white

Next door, the husband, of the husband and wife gardening team, leans thoughtfully on his upstanding rake

For myself, I walk to the post-office shop, buy an exotic ice-cream lollipop, and a glue stick, to complete my Artists Rules project

Alas, the three art papers, each with their own distinct colour wash, are not yet dry; more time is needed, I return to the writing

There is music playing, which requires some investigation; it appears that Vaughan Williams has been left alone in the bathroom

I look up the word congruence, for I have used it in my Soul Questions; I find the definition to be most agreeable

A Useful Process

I have all kinds of memories

I follow fourteen-hundred

Fellow postees on Tumblr

To take me there

Today it is the turn of Raul-Dufy

With his painting The Basin of Deauville

Which apparently was painted in 1935

Or eighty-six years ago

So quite a while before I was born

That one painting, courtesy of Wikipedia

Takes me to fifty more works of art

Such that I am in danger

Yes, I really am in danger

Of completely forgetting my first connection

Which I am pretty certain had something to do

With harbours and boats

Which reminds me, of glasses of chilled white wine

Let alone who I was with, in that inarticulate moment

 

Someone Else’s Suggestion

All is as all could ever be

Warm sun, cool breeze

Snowfall on the winter vacation

All is as all that we leave

Photographs, poems

Memories of the life once lived

Looking forwards, plans for another year

A chartered yacht

Swimming, snorkelling in warm, enthusing seas

What could go wrong 

What could go right

Where on the fence should I sit

All is as all could ever be

Warmer suns, softer, gentler breezes

Silent of any winter vacation

All is as all that we leave

Videos, audio recordings

UHD memories of the life once lived

Donald Hall

Flowers

With us

To be colourful

With us

To be youthful

Colours

Gifted to us

By the meadows

Youth

Gifted to us

By the generations

Purples, yellows, whites, blues and reds

Passions in deep waves

Sensations, of sweetest lust-filled scents

Teenage years and retirement years

Explorations of presents and futures

Entertainments of here and now and then

Flowers

With us, as with beauty

With us, as with life

A Useful Object

The kaleidoscopic effect

Created by strong sunlight

Passing through moving clouds

Before falling onto half-closed eyes

Grants a certain pathway

Into our very own randomness

That dark spring night

Or was it the end of winter

Not though in any way cold

Nor with any edge on time

Other than sometimes there would be

The warmth of the liquor

The light of the moon

The languor of the love

The eternal senselessness 

Of our presently being together

Yet senselessness only

From a new distance

From a meditation seat

In an opportunistic

Kaleidoscopic inducing garden

Actually senselessness 

Might better be read

As intensely sensual

Bare skin, twisted together fingers

Eyes and lips eagerly awaiting

Such that the notes

Of the perfumes

Of the sands and the oceans

Reach out for the lavender balm

Pressed fresh from today’s garden

Anticipation

It is true

There may be no one here

And, of course

I would be disappointed

Although an opportunity

To work alone

Yet let’s not call it work

Even if other readers might

Instead an opportunity

Which maybe has knocked once too often

Let us say a possibility

Even if the thesaurus offers us probability

Which might I say looks like an error

For me possibility is a good way off probability

And vice-versa, and yes, you are correct

It is becoming like work

Points Of View

I could look out on Plymouth Sound

Take in the view

From the tip tip-top of Dartmoor

I could look out from Batley's high spots

Across to who knows where on the Pennines

Before the downhill, to the very depths of the valley

And of these views, these views of far and further

I could become romantic

Or, perhaps stay safe, be entirely matter of fact

The variety club is there no more

The breakwater is silent to my offerings

Weather worn granite more than one dream away

Is all indeed more distant

Beyond the outlook, beyond

Instead to gaze through the nearest window

In this the month of June

In this the later of the later days

Where the desert is still, as ever, hopeful

Maps & Plans

I know you

Yet also I do not know you

Would a road trip

Around Scotland’s North Coast 500

Help me to know you better

When you stand atop a Munro

Do you whisper words of zen

Or does the man, once a boy from North Yorkshire

Simply say thanks for where he has travelled

His uncomplicated words, for what he has achieved

And if it is not you

Who shares this journey with me

Who then might it be; yes, who might it be

Are there others, many many others

Who I know, yet also, who I do not know

And if I have to go alone

Yet also not be alone

Would a few stopping off points

By the sands, beside the seas

Help me to know me, me alone, a little better

1%

There are men, and women

All around the world

Stepping up to the microphone

Speaking from a life stage

To talk of the balance of life

The beauty of life

There are some women, and some men

All around the world

Attending ceremonies and events

Waiting for the words of wisdom

Listening out for the jewel gems of life

So that they may share the beauty of life

There are a few men, and a few women

All around the world

Who move easily from podium to audience

From the floor of the hall to centre stage

You too may become one of these few

If you are able to fully embrace the beauty of life

Buckets & Spades

I walk to the top of Fore Street; it is half-day closing

In this South Hams estuary town

Yet a few holiday shops are still open

I buy myself an ice-cream

Which I saviour, sat on a churchyard seat

Before I enter my temporary accommodation

I have moved from the North of England

To be here in the South-West

I am alone in this, my transition town

Yet to see my smile

My posture, my demeanour

You might think otherwise; I couldn’t possibly say

I spot a red telephone box by the police station

I will make a call from there later I say to myself

But first to change out of the work clothes

Hypnotherapy Meditation

You did say I might have dreams

You

Who told me to be strong

You

Who asked me, in your nauseating voice

To remember my childhood angst

You

Who went on and on

About how others had damaged me

You

Did you expect it to be my father

And my elder brother

You

Do you know what ideas

You have placed in my sub-conscious

You

Do you know

What damage you have done to my dreams

Your Water

Salt water

Fresh water

Fresh salt water

Landing on sand

With bladderwrack

With finer seaweed

Seaweed as fine as cotton

Seaweed as fine as wool 

As fine as that line you wrote

Out by the loch

As fine as that line you wrote

In the cottage garden

As fine as that line you wrote

Aboard the rowing boat

All of your life in touch with water

Your hands in the streams

Catching sticklebacks, building dams

Your bare body afloat in the ocean

Feeling life, spreading salt

Your eyes cast out over the bay

Thinking of, yes, mostly thinking of

My Water

He wrote about water

So I shall write about water

More specifically

I will write about the water

Of The Orkney’s Scapa Flow

Though I will especially try

Not to mention the German navy

Scuppering (sinking) their own boats

Or Churchill having barriers built

By the workers of the Italian Chapel

Constructed to pen in the opposition

Rather I will write about the light

Light seen from Houton

The late-night light

Scattered as flashlights by the waves

Weaved as satin beneath the clouds

The early morning light

Flushed by the disturbance of the first ferry

Reflected by the shoreline on the coastal lane

Also the sun light, and the mist light

Which both gave, which both took away

My reference frame of meaning

My valuable source of reassurance

Frame, Shoot, Blend

I thought to crop the photograph

Take out the land, the wall

Leave only sky, sky and sea

Leave only light, light and imagination

You thought that too many photographs

Held little or no meaning

That criticism weighed heavily

On top of my own denigration

I asked myself how, or why

Where might I learn

Is to slow down the answer

Or should I be more fleet of foot

You asked yourself when, or which

Should be a memory

Is categorisation the answer

Or would random-display better the effect