At the end of the grassy lane, past the row of terrace houses, over the top of Bully Hill, the old vicarage set back off the road, way into the distance. Overgrown stones, names faded in a new life that seems out of control. With a scramble the bramble is parted to reveal a past, a last life ordered with a hierarchy; ordered, but gone now.
Here I am in the morning with wisdom and the poetry of the saints
Alone with no one else around
No choir or congregation, alone with my past
Tiny words, of great ideas and inspirations, of winds and ghosts
Of heavens and constellations
Water colours of a smaller place and a simpler time
Where cart tracks trundled into meadows, trees gave shelter
And we had a candle for late nights behind the moon
Time resumes, caught on a stairway between the old and the new
The railway line runs east to west, carrying the few
The flight path north to south rather more consumes
My toes tingle, where do we call our home
With sounds that let us be single, walking, on the shingle beach
Or further, somewhere more easily out of reach
All the while my mind flicks in and out of groove
From one place and then to another
The rain falls at the slightest threat of sunshine
I am restless; without anything to prove
I am restless, without my life to smother
