Last

Today is the last of the last

Gone past the previous cast

Repeat the slog 

Third generation, clog to clog

Great grandfathers before

In eighteen sixty-four

Missed the war

Chose the close of door

Now it is my time

Read the rhyme

Off to do my thing

Sounds to have a similar ring

From principles mathematic

To humanities emphatic

To some it makes no sense

Without recompense

But please come on near

I am agog with fear

Trepidation in depth

Marks my breadth

What is to learn

But past concerns

Present understandings

Laughter on the landings

Clog or sculpture

Approach the vulture

Is it daft to mine or craft

This unknown shaft

The cobblers shop

The mighty stop

The rusted hinge

With lusts syringe

So it’s a must

Last take on just

Today’s the day

The slaves stole away

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Darkness

The door is closed

The blackout blacks out

The finest pinpoint

Of light or spout

Wander of bass

Slow the rhythms fold

No walls to touch

No chains to hold

Accustomed to nought

Nought is lost

Unless you count

The time you cost

Therapeutic introspection

Images roll

Scroll through wasted years

Memories unfold

The door opens

Into night

Into nowhere

Further than sight

The blackout

Blacks out the night

Now the finest pinpoint

Shapes the shapeless flight

Burn the acorns

Crush the leaves

In the darkness

Sight deceives

The time is now

Over hollow floors

That we receive

The open chamber door

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There it is

There it is

The new car has been ordered

Another random reflex reaction

On my way to PE22 7NA

This time it is a Kia

My brother an ex mechanic

Speaks very highly of them

Anyway it is Interstellar Metallic Grey

I did seek approval

Not wishing nor wanting to surprise

I don’t know the deeper thoughts

But put on the spot she said yes

Its due to be collected

This time Friday week

After my retreat with the Bamford Quakers

Who may or may not have anything to say

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How does the youth conspire

How does the youth conspire

To look as old

As the customers she serves

Is this really

Life on the edge

Or have the copyrighters gone soft

There are more stories

One about the beginnings

Of container cargo ships

His name was Malcolm McLean

That’s right, not Malcolm McLaren

Who you may know from the Sex Pistols

And why would Vivienne Westwood

Or a serious lookalike

Enter the café right now

What is the story behind her full length

Tiger-striped onesie if not

To stand out from the old folks

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You will know

You will know

Where I have been

As you also have shared

Where I am going

With your friends and our friends

Is there any discrimination

For instance I do know

You have told of the rent I am to pay

Is this fair

That my life enters the public domain

Without question or thought

As to my feelings

It is too too late now

What is spoken cannot be rescinded

All I can hope is that due to its unimportance

It will soon be forgotten

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Step by step

Step by step

Long arms

Hunched shoulders

A Breton T-shirt

Beneath his canvas jacket

It is as if

He was looking at me

As I was walking

But he passed by

Without saying a word

The fishing man too

Is also all alone

Yet he does appear

To have a purpose and a method

For his support of solitude

Should I have lunch

How late was breakfast

Isn’t my body supposed to tell me

All that I need to know

Yet today it doesn’t seem to want to

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I am not

I am not

Or have not turned out to be

Who I thought I was

Even if I helped to forge

Your misapprehension

Yes I did write poetry

But that was for many reasons

Too many to talk about now

Even if we could

But of course now there is no reason

Another beach café filled

With older people such as you and I

This time the sand is brown

And supports a fisherman with rod and line

Fishing in the anything but azure blue sea

The very place where a few summers ago

Daughter, grandsons and you

Talked to another fisherman

Who told the young boys he was after shark

But I said, not to believe all that you are told

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A curve of light

A curve of light

But not yet a smile

A share of the cup

But not yet any glow

He crosses his arms

Leans forwards

To rest them on the table

But shows little satisfaction

Am I intruding

Does he deserve peace

To contemplate on

Whatever are his troubles

Slowly he puts on his kagoul

And places his North Face bag

Over his head, as will I

Similarly do, in a few minutes

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He rolls his own

He rolls his own

Holds the tip

Between his lips

As he sifts the tobacco

Onto the Rizla+ paper

He looks out to nowhere

His looking glasses

Are laying on the table

Such thoughts as those he holds

Have to remain hidden

Behind his somewhat darker shades

I have no reason

To ask for a point of entry

But if I don’t

Then who else might

For we are both otherwise alone

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Think on

Think on

Of this breeze

Of the caged cobbles

Of the beauty of life

Be there

In the moment

With the emptiness of love

To wrap around you

Be wary

Of the dancing

Remember past times

And where the dance led

Yet encourage beauty

Try to be faithful

Even if that night

Was anything but

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Watch

Watch

The flocks

Of black birds

Which settle

Into

The gorse bushes

Think

Of yourself

With such graceful

Controlled movements

As you take

Your very next steps

Sit

On the viewing platform

At The Boatyard Café

Look

Out to sea

At the one boat on the horizon

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To walk in deep, soft, dry sand

To walk in deep, soft, dry sand

Is to make slow progress

Although of course it gifts you time

To trace back through previous footsteps

There was a moment, back there

When I had to turn around both ways

To pull me out of the stupor

But where did I go to find such nothingness

Yes, I was nowhere with no one

I wasn’t even with myself

Such was the separation from this realm

Of time, and life, and lovers ever after

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I am here

I am here

I am waiting

I have given away

Most all I can

But I am ready

To pitch in

With whatever skills

Life has taught me

Here in the reed grass

On the sand dunes

Between land and beach

On the Machair

As they name it

In the Outer Hebrides

Where I also learnt

The beauty of solitude

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It’s what you learnt

It’s what you learnt

During the life you led

Which helped you to move forward

Days, weeks, months and years

Of playing football instead of going to school

Helped you to fall in love with the beautiful game

Damming streams, scrumping bonfire wood

And following the hunt all showed you

That change can be dangerous, and violent

A seven year indentured apprenticeship

In parallel with attendance at technical college

Gave you a trade plus a lifetime of understanding

The Open University with several summer schools

Took you out of the simple country boy

Into a land of intellectuals, also intentioned lovers

Giving up one good life for one other

Led you into a life of struggle and joy

Neither of which have you yet given up on

And so you sit in the beach car park

After a full English breakfast at the golf club

Wondering just what you are going to learn next

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It’s not what you are

It’s not what you are

It’s what you are not

Also that you know

The distance between them

Is vast, immense

Such that to envy

Or to struggle to achieve

Is as powerless or as pointless

As is trying to overcome

The craving for tobacco

It’s what you are

Not what you are not

So forget completely

About talking clearly

In educated English

Instead

Pull together your energies

Push out your clear focus

Into the deeper realities

Of just where you are now

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Was that you

Was that you

Looking out

Over the eighteenth green

On captain’s day

In midsummer

Or did you never share

Such joy or celebration

With your fellow players

Choosing instead

Always to hit the long drive

Is there surprise

In your eyes

That you came here

For breakfast

With strong coffee

The egg

Fried just right

And mushrooms

With the extra portion

Saying something about generosity

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There’s a gap

There’s a gap

Under the door

There’s a point

To its detection

More than a space

For the thrower

Time to anoint

A true reflection

There’s a light

On the hinge

With a reason

For further inspection

More than a beauty

With strength to singe

In this the season

Of faint intention

There’s a shadow

Of window’s lead

There’s a flower

To the true deception

More than a morning

Of bower to tread

There’s the power

Of words with correction

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By the pier

By the pier

But with no real money

So quite unable

To play the slot machines

Much then as it was

As a ten-year old

On Blackpool’s golden mile

Of penny arcades

Which in turn remind me

Of the girl who I asked to wait

at the South Shore pleasure beach

While I went back to Albert Road

Unfortunately the memory

Does not remember why I left

Or what was so god-damned important

That I needed to go and collect it

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I am the I-click Marco Polo

I am the I-click Marco Polo

Of this the open sea

I am the non-stop seagull

Confirming my territory

There is no end to my belligerence

Or my lack of dignity

Though I am thankful for the sparrow

Which appears to be on a par with me

A going nowhere Friday afternoon

Lost in that, the thoughtless haze

Of approaching rearrangements

Of that, the life as it once was known

In search of near calamity

Or for ceramics made in the rain

On the podium for past reality

With a look-out to the claim

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Every place has its problems

Every place has its problems

Here it's the seagulls

The walkers with their dogs

And the irregular hours

Of the drug dealers

Everywhere on earth is blighted

With one annoyance or another

Here it is the broad beam shorts

For daughters and mothers

As they lean on the railings

Every town in every county

From the north to the south

Every hope quickly becomes regret

As sad words leave the mouth

To characterise the diminished accent

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Gratitude

Gratitude

Towards pigeons

And Weatherspoon’s

Bask

In September sunshine

Between the clouds

To believe

Or to not believe

In the church of the church

Who meet in cinemas

Hotels, cafés

And your house if you let them

What else to do

But to sit up straight

Think of the last few lines

Before the tide goes out

Or the floodgates

Are put in place

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