Decorum Est

Such is the force of recovery

That I have walked into town

On three or four occasions

The green leaves on black

Suggests the same bitter experience

With the American coffee deliveries

Outside, or across from

The Consortium, I sit in a room

Called the library

Where the other customers apologise

For being too too noisy

With their knives and forks

Which reminds me

Of Mucknell Abbey, where

We were told to be quiet

With our cutlery, especially

Not to scrape too too loudly

Across the crockery

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In Payment For Ice-Cream

To the top of the hill

First a jog

Slowing down

To a walk

As the incline steepens

Then, step by step

Sideways and forwards

Thinking of Keats’ Negative Capability

Before long

It is a crawl

Though not in the swimming sense

More a case of using all four extremities

For leverage

Of course the real problem

Is vertigo, that

And the thin air

Which decidedly interrupts the breathing

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In-Flight

This is a place of swifts

Or swallows, which appear

To embrace each other

In mid-air

Which gives an altogether

New meaning to the phrase

I don’t give a flying fuck

Though I have to say

That I only caught a glimpse

And it was over in a moment

Which of course brings back

Oh so many memories

Indeed, nowadays

I only manage the foreplay

Which perhaps is what

All of their swooping

And swirling is for

Or is it, after all

Just my senior imagination

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Meet The Lad

Blue skies

Green trees

Yes, really

The very crux of Dartmoor

Two Bridges

To be precise

With black coffee, and

An occasional fierce wind

Yet, directly above

Pure blue

As blue as blue can be

For the moment

My straggling hair

Has shadows

Which bounce on the page

Presumably also on my head

No need then today

Or any other day for that matter

To show off too too much

Of your undefined wisdom

Though a song begins in my head

In an American country style

From Yelverton to Princetown

To the Devon County jail

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Weston

It could be Bass Rock

But it isn’t

The broad Somerset accent

Gives the game away

We are here to be entertained

Let me entertain you:

Diet coke with black Americano

Although you could have Mojito

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Llanthony Secunda

Hundreds, thousands, millions

Of plimsoles, shoes and boots

Have eroded the ground

In front of this bench

Which I have to say

Is well secured

With concrete and steel

In case there are thieves about

The sky is bold and blue

Yet the plumes of jets

Criss-cross, above where

Cargo ships would once have docked

The Light-Ship hotel

Waves the Ukrainian flag

Offering a special deal

If you should wish to stay

McCarthy Stone have built

Right up to the flyover

Their ubiquitous multi-storey

Accommodation with balconies

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Dockside

Disturbed

By the disturbance

To the Leaves of Grass poet

Gifted to me (is it a gift)

By Maria Popova

Disturbed

By the book entitled

The Unconsoled

Gifted to me (is it really a gift)

By Friar Amos

Disturbed

By all the wrong turns taken

In the van without satellite navigation

Gifted to me (she said so)

By the girl at central reservations

Not disturbed, at all

By the service and selection

At Wagamama

Gifted to me ( though I paid princely for it)

By the waitress with the engaging smile

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Natural Divergence

The cloud hangs

Or drifts

Imperceptibly slowly

As if on a stage set

Or a film

About negative capability

So still are the trees

As if renewing the view

Of that Tuscany horizon

Here, with different fruit

It could be for hmm…

But no, I know not what

Except that now

It stretches directly upwards

Whereas before it leant, slant

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Prinknash

Fresh flowers

In the window by the table

My back nestles

Into the chair

With its plain but curved back

Monastic music plays

In this well-populated café

I settled on

The Tunisian Orange cake

Plus a Benedictine slice

With a strawberry milkshake

Halfway through the cake

I decided that a black Americano

Was also in order

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Pierce

Monday morning

Blue sky

Bright sunlight

Wind blowing

Like billy-ho

How far

To the schoolyard

To the maypole

To those memories

Unable to be crystallised

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Angles

In sunlight

And laughter

If it’s boredom

That you’re after

There’s other places to go

How could I not see

Another part of me

How else to be

With perspicacity

Befuddled

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Same Day

Monday 16th May

Arrive at The Bothy for one full week

Provisions bought at M&S

So little need for further departures

But absolutely no TV

Even though last night’s 

Sky Arts expose of the Moody Blues

Totally captivated me

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Tomorrow

My clumsiness

Is fast approaching

A worrying level

Says he

As his coca-cola bubbles over

And floods all across the table top

Meanwhile

A Fever Tree advertisement

Is read out at The Valley

A particularly uninspiring

Shopping centre

On the outskirts of Evesham

On this grey cloud

Monastic Retreat Monday morning

With three more weeks to go

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Dumbleton Walk

I don’t expect

That Dumbleton

Has too many houses

On Right Move

But the Wicket House

Would be fine for me

Now I will check out

The village

For a public house

Because the cricket club

Does not appear to be open

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Dumbleton Hall

It is easier

To be together

When we are apart

Can we feel so much more

For each other

With distance between us

The wedding guests

Those who stayed over

Are now leaving

As it was

So it will be

Or that’s how it seems

She sends him to the car

For provisions

And outdoor clothing

She sends him again

For newspapers

And Sunday supplements

She then plays hell with him

For not being steady

As she pours the wine

He does what he is told

Then apologises and apologises

No wonder. he drives a Ford

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Hiatus

I should have known

What with lambs, sheep and cattle

At rest beneath the trees

Pheasant and partridge

Also ducking for cover

Yet only a few spots

Before the dark clouds move on

And bright sunlight returns

Exposing the laughter

Of those who stayed over

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Sacristie

This, the quietest of places

Apart from the pigeons

The birdsong, the highway

And the railroad

This, the quietest of places

Is a final rest place

For the Oblate and Priest

Also for the two Sisters

Perhaps

The central mound

With its single oak

Amongst unkempt grasses

Is symbolic

But I could not say of what

For I am not a religious man

If you are able to believe me

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Sojourn

I had not expected

To see so much hawthorn

Or for it to grow so very tall

But I suppose it is alongside the river

Elsewhere the ground is bone dry

Harder than a rolled cricket wicket

With all the cracks of five days play

Battered by bat and ball, by players and weather

The willow clones

Are cloned everywhere

Their fresh shoots shooting skyward

With the freedom of gay abandon

A slow train. disappears

Beyond an horizon of yet more hawthorn

I expect that it is heading

For the parkway station

Once again I am playing truant

On this occasion from None

Which, once upon a time

I thought meant no service

How wrong could I be

How many times, so so many times

Have I let wrong lead me on

Yet here I am, alive, and writing 

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After Being Denied

 Mango sorbet

Because the Picnic Box

Has sold out

Of strawberry ice cream

Would you rather be

Front of house

Or are you better off

Working in the back-kitchen

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Denied

The hotel does have ice cream

But the kitchen isn’t open

So I can’t have any

Also that might

Explain why

The coffee is lacking

What it takes, to reach

Those dizzy heights

Of a truly black Americano

 

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Mucknell Abbey

 Will the body stand the pain

The blue sky is clouding over

Their words are not my words

Neither can I read their music

But I can close my eyes

I can feel the breeze

Wafting through my fine mop of hair

And I can feel for those not with me

That is my discipline

To think to write a letter

Yet not a letter for posterity

Instead a letter to hold on to love

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After Not Being Promoted

 And of course

Last night’s disappointment at football

Will take quite a while

To wear off

It’s probably the end

Of that team as we’ve known it

Already I have learnt

They were the second oldest team in the league

There is a sadness

And a dullness

Also an apprehension

Instead of an excitement

This isn’t how the first day

Ought to be

Yet doubts always surface

At the beginning of an adventure

And so the emptiness

The loneliness of leaving you behind

Brings a hollowness

To the car's interior

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Flatland Slopes

I don’t belong here

What with my dodgy hips

And all these sloping pavements

Which also annoy the hell

Out of my nervous thighs

Someone once said

That Lincolnshire was flat

Well not on the wolds it’s not

All over the place there are tricks

To trip up the troubled walker 

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