I come towards the corner

I come towards the corner

But don’t sit in the corner

After all

It is the time for a new beginning

Yet still with black Americano

Instantly I think back

To more than fifty years ago

When girls and boys would be girls and boys

Always, to think well of oneself

Yet of course, altogether desperately uncertain

Would she really want to go out with me

What kind of a life had I to offer

Yet what a life it’s been, so far

No, there hasn’t been a constant companion

But sufficient dangerous liaisons

To bring fervent touches of spice and colour

New opportunities to discover now

Away from the seats on the sidelines

New eyes to be re-opened

Once the cataracts are removed

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The *>*>* is not a good look

The *>*>* is not a good look

Even for a stick insect

With magnificent eyes

The walnut cake

Is chock full of sugar

I didn’t expect that

The coffee though

Is spot on

Certainly a prime flavour

Unfortunately

The crystalline

Is already coursing through the veins

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Along the line

Along the line

Of the silent windmills

Twenty-four in all

North to south

Flight hill

Is this a portent

Can you still hear me

Do you still listen

Would you care

If you could

Should I worry

Either way

Well of course

It would be rude not to

Isn’t that the whole point

Of our being together

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I ought to be more methodical

I ought to be more methodical

Draw up lists of pros and cons

Perhaps even create a ratings system

I’ve done that in the past

For now Green Lane ticks the boxes

Quiet, rural, good internet

A café (this one) round the corner

A bucketload of past connections

But is it a good thing

Or even sensible, to return

To a place of your crucial years

Where once you fell off Jack’s motorbike

That last bit is absolutely true

I just couldn’t get around the corners

During my try-out ride

On the Moto Guzzi, or was it the MZ contraption

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I am in the Carding Shed Café

I am in the Carding Shed Café

At Washpit Mills, Holmfirth

I have just viewed and made an offer

To rent a flat in the old yarn store

My mother worked on the looms

And I drove a fork truck full of bobbins

In my school holidays

Now it’s a vintage car museum, sort of

There is a sign in the corner

Which points to Cartworth Moor

Which is where in will go next

Also it is where, as a youth, I played cricket

Is it nostalgia that draws me

Am I just another old romantic

This might not be the end of my viewings

But at least I’ve made a start

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He works on the Humber Bridge

He works on the Humber Bridge

In his bright orange, slightly scuffed

Tradesmen’s overhalls

But right now he hangs his head

Over the railings

Seemingly deep in contemplation

Above the silt scoured

Sand coloured waters

Of the tidal estuary

I too, more than once

Approached the precipice

To question what the future offered

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I met Dominic

I met Dominic

In the Bow room

At Madhyamaka

The UK’s first centre

For Kadampa Buddhism

He was repairing

The four, large, sash windows

His tools, materials and dust covers

Were strewn all over the floor

Also around the temple cabinet

I asked if he was a resident

Or a contractor, to which he replied

That he was a Buddhist contractor

Oh I said, what does that mean

Well; he paused, I waited, he said:

Being fair, being honest

Not charging too much

Being prepared to work extra hours

Having the desire to do a good job

Not to be driven by profit

Dominic is from Norwich

Which has a small meditation centre

Out towards the coast

He came up with his girlfriend

But she fell off the bike

And, with a bruised face

She felt uncomfortable

Needed to return home

He thinks it will take another week

To complete the renovation

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Sat again

Sat again

On the landing

Beside the open window

The van Gogh print

Has been moved

Replaced by a sculptural affair

Both window and sculpture

Are photographed

For future reflections

Tall ceilings

Are in my life today

Long may that continue

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Café stop for breakfast

Café stop for breakfast

Just like all those years ago

On the way to work at Edwinstowe

Same as it ever was, to the last

The kitchen staff are busy as hell

Doing this, that and the other

Surely grey haired Nellie is the mother

Of the washing up daughter under her spell

And the road, to the race track

Quiet today, but not for long

Sadness, but soon to be a song

All that silent nostalgia; watch my back

Don’t forget fishing men, and holidaymakers

Looking for an early autumn break

With sausage, bacon and steak

A poetry stop with or without any takers

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He strolls across

He strolls across

The cobbled market square

Grey shorts, grey T-shirt, grey hair

She takes his arm, grey dress

But blonde hair, au naturelle

There is no disguise for love

Two construction workers

With boots, beards

And safety vests

While Mrs Robinson plays

On the cafés sound system which acts

As wallpaper for the lunchtime diners

Steak and eggs (two)

With a side of bubble & squeak

Which, probably thanks to ample butter

Is way more than simply delicious

Indeed it must be remembered

And, right here and now, it has been

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In the honeymoon phase

In the honeymoon phase

Of a relationship break-up

Before the house is sold

Or new homes identified

Another café, on another day

In a town

Without any recommendation

Other than the café

In the drilling-down essence

Of two people falling apart

Before new shoots of life

Find their way through the earth

A pair of colour-coded Italian bicycles

With matching mustard-wall tyres

Each have drop handlebars

Although neither is a female frame

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I might have caught the sun

I might have caught the sun

While looking for the shade

I might have caught your eye

While looking for distraction

Either way, going forwards

We ought to take it on, didn’t we

If for no other reason than to align

The northern star with the galaxies of love

The neat VW camper-van

Might offer the right kind of escape

As also could

The Audi three-litre metallic coupe

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Pages, sewn together with cotton

Pages, sewn together with cotton

Not stapled or glued

Could I be so so careful

He doesn’t park the car too well

And his lady-friend she tells him

He shrugs, it’s obviously not his fault

Anyway, by now, he can taste the hops

As he thinks to slake his thirst

With a great big pint of blonde beer

A regular, or so it seems, takes the last space

Close up against the horse box -

Some folks just do not stand on ceremony

I myself am still trying to be creative

But, with only a car park for inspiration

What are my options, realistically

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He carries a vase of flowers

He carries a vase of flowers

Across the public house car park

Jarvis sings

I wanna live like common people

Yet only yesterday, on radio 3’s Private Passions

He was revealing his favourite classical music

Kicking off with Yorkshireman Frederick Delius

The bride of the wedding, down the road

Is a keen and capable gardener

Who has truly inspired the village

One hour has passed, almost

Since you said to walk to the pub

So, being good with instruction, I did just that

Here to listen to dancing in the moonlight

Which may well be played again, later

Whiteley Neil’s banner claims theirs to be

The UK’s most loved gin, how do they know that

Or are they just trying to be controversial

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Down the road

Down the road

No more than a stroll away

A couple are getting married

The sun is warm

The sky is blue

Exactly the kind of day to wish for

What’s that you say

Be careful what you wish for

Remember ’75 or was it ’76

There is a stone detail

Around the top of the windows

I have not seen the like before

Be wary of surprises

Did you really say that

As you handed them their rings

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Two rolled up balls of foil wrapping

Two rolled up balls of foil wrapping

Both remnants of the serving

Of Americano Coffee

Arctic Monkeys

(Once of High Green, Sheffield)

Play out on the Power Dynamics speakers

Huge, imitation bottle tops on the wall

Fooks Strawberry Milk catches my eye

With its artificial flavor and color

Why did the letter u not travel to America

The music does have a u

So far it is al from the UK

And could easily be one of my playlists

Do you remember… in five years time

It was fun, fun, fun…

Oh, oh

oh there’s trouble in America

Nothing on the tv, nothing on the radio

that I can believe in

But who is it by

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Potential

The breeze follows me

Around the corner

Before continuing on its own way

Dancing to its own tune

Before that

The first line was last

Due to an unusual

Sunday afternoon sighting

Also the second love

Where a couple

Have resonated

For the last half-mile

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Potent

Here is the feather

But already I have forgotten

The time and the place

That it entered my life

I do remember that I thought it to be

A native American Indian tradition

To bring security and joy

Into the wigwams and the teepees

I have an idea

That it could have been a monastery

A retreat to spirituality

Where events such as this could occur

And now my invaluable

If somewhat vulnerable breath

Blows it across the table

Requiring a moment of recovery

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Turning Corners, Sunday Mornings

It is a quiet town

For a bright orange

’67 Transporter

Is everything as it really is

Is this the truth that they really represented

It is a slow-driver Sunday

For a gloss black

2010 Transporter

That the presence should wait for me

On the tarmacadam roads of awareness

Have Laura’s green leaves decorated the BA

And could they do the same

For my next year’s transporter

It is a black coffee rest place

For an Italian jacket and a Japanese pencil

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Setting Out, Turning Back

One footstep too many

One raindrop for the few

One beech nut tree story

The fell and the root reordered

One old school house standing

One age of time to view

One car driven too quickly

The pace of life in residue

One branch softly swaying

One sunspot to include

One patched up blue sky

The hope is to preview

A seat looking out

Away across the meadow

A treat for sincere sore eyes

After a walk, a path to follow

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Play

It wasn’t Rocco

Who complained

About being hit by the wheelbarrow

No, it was someone’s mother

Who asked why

Why would anyone do such a thing

But there and then

With an adult’s intrusion

Rocco’s game was over

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Musing

I don’t honestly know

What my life is about

Not at least, as in the words

Of Story of My heart

By Richard Jefferies

I do (hopefully honestly) know

That to among nature

With a breeze to my back

Is about a good a thing

As one might peacefully imagine

Several layers of green leaves

Before and beneath the blue sky

Stock still grove stones

Telling the forever stories

Of families and societies

There is even room here

For thorns and nettles

For rough cut grass

And overgrown hedges

To keep life contained

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