One afternoon
Yes one
Among
More than
Twenty-five-thousand
On the waterfront
Waiting for the ferry
Taking tea and burnt cake
In the lady from Vienna’s café
One afternoon
Yes one
Among
Less than
Twenty-thousand
The math is difficult
One life to the next
Waiting for forgiveness
As I read the text
Holding together
For fear
Of falling apart
Old shoes of leather
With insoles
For making a new start
Witness the heather
Under blue skies
To practice the art
Doubtful as ever
Yet released here
To play the part
Way less than clever
The solitude
Stays in the cart
Now and then and forever
Reconciled
Only the truth to impart
That this time
Is that of all time
Here alongside The River Dart
Less disappointment
With the writing
When each word
Can be chosen
At will
As if on demand
More difficult
With the sketch
Where every mark
Is out on its own
Not ever
In quite the right place
And so
The artwork
Continues the disillusionment
Along with relationships
And personality
Where every second counts
Sunlight through
The upstairs windows
Back and front
It’s almost like
Being back at college
With plenty time to write
Just two classes
Each week
One for writing, one for poetry
I remember the moment
Distinctly
Yet I have no visual support
I could build a construct
From what I know
Short, white, denim skirt
Short-sleeve cotton top
Almost a tennis outfit
But with way more style
A damp day in Revesby
Slow rain flows down the window pane
I go outside to stop the garden door banging
There is much to do
I put milk in my coffee
Instead of on my cereals
Adobe cannot find my specifications
And neither can I
I watch the video
Projected onto the fireplace wall
I am reminded of the photographs
And eventually find the file-path
A damp day in Revesby
Elements takes eight minutes to render
Although my son tells me, that back in the day
It would have taken at least half-a-life
I drink the cold water
I taste, then eat, the cold baked beans
I peel, then devour, the indistinct tangerine
Why so expansive
Why so interested
What have I done
To deserve this
Yes it was a place
From my past
Central to the city
Where I might have found you
Yet without any love interest
Not anyone that I remember
Bur why would I
It was such a long time ago
There in the gallery
Glass tables
Set out in rectangular patterns
Some had clay, some didn’t
There was clay
Which I worked
I was part of this
Upstairs
A huge piece of furniture
Which looked likely
To topple over
At any moment
I felt responsible
I was part of this
The main artist
Had been overwhelmed
He left
To go on a walk
His disciples worried for him
I got on with the job
I felt to belong
Today is the shortest day
So followers of the winter solstice inform me
You see I am not so well versed
With the factual facilities of life
So I get by, by believing in
What others care to bring
If it is the shortest
Might it not also qualify
As the brightest
Which a scientist may tell me
That the sun and moon and stars
Coincidentally deliver this to me
In this body
The only one I have
There seems to be a need to say thank you
For a good nights sleep
Benjamin becoming Thomas
Behind the rotating foam drums
His father appears and suggests
That being Thomas isn’t such a great idea
Andrew arrives, full of cold
Shivering he puts the present
And card on the back seat
Then drives off back home
Such is the timing
On this last Saturday morning before Christmas
Emma, Tim, and the boys, flying at three
To ski on the French slopes
