On the cusp of sleep
There lives the single word
Or the phrases of monogamy
On the upheld unknown journey
Accompaniment is wayward
Yet welcome, bringing to life
Though not to be spoken
It is wielded by the unforgiving saint
On the break of day a pencil
Is gripped before a wipe of the eye
The ringing is all
Inside of the ears, the endless
Tingle of the damned infernal
From one big open space
To another
Down one long road
Without cloud to smother
Headlights, tail lights
Caffeine to recover
The radio plays
He ain’t heavy he's my brother
Into one small room
From another
It'll be breakfast soon
Without your lover
Nor neither his pink Cadillac
Three layers of reflection
Several hues of blue collected
On glazed vases once rejected
Falling tip-toe short of perfection
Three stares into perception
More news of crews defected
On trade cruisers once inspected
Stalling tip-toe short of deception
Three pairs, fares for inspection
Declared their turn is now affected
On laid up messages once again erected
Calling tip-toe short of duties detection
In the triple-glazed condo extension
In place of strife
In a life of opportunity
And always being the last to leave
Not seeing those lost in left behind love
Tastes of freedom, seasons
Of spring, of summer, of autumn
Winters turn, burn
Dumb again, left for reasons of love
Paisley shirts, floppy felt hat
With a touch so intimate
A gait, the trait, it's late
Don't hesitate, imagine that
Yes to fancy being the anchor of love
The alarm clock misses its beat
Our feet touch and we talk of dreams
The meaning of our sleep it seems
Wrapped in paper, left by the keep
In the park where you showed me headstones
The old bones, uncovered and moved to one side
The pride of civilisation, they cried
We lied, and sang of Me and Mrs Jones
Unknown to another generation
Later or earlier, after, before, or in between
Unseen by angels and painters, redeemed
By atheists, agnostics, and the freighter
Which funnels the flow along the leat
You play The ride of the valkyries
I play Conquest of paradise
You drive down Mulholland
I go through my village to the moor
Your landscapes are mountains
And deserts, lands open of fear
My hillsides are for shepherds
For winds, and cheek red tears
I turn, full round in either direction
In this twilight the twinkles
Of the cities illuminate the depths
Of the valleys, indicate the journeys
To the centres of our earths
In a cosy pub, away from your mother
With your mates, light ale, or the new mixture
Of lager and ice cold Irish cider; you say
You won't stay long, before you get on home
To the television and the chatter
Yes, the natter of what you did with your day
Not that it matters, unless of course
You've confounded everyone and got a job
Or once again picked up the calendar
With artwork by Vermeer, or passed the scent
Of lilies in bloom, or explained how to develop
The recipe of sauce for Beef Wellington
And if you do hear us say, without thought… if only
If you had a caravan
Would that make you
A particular kind of person
If then in November
You camped on the top
Of this most desolate of moors
Would that say something
About how you fit into society
In an hour, or less
It will be total darkness
Later the whisper of silence will arrive
I wonder to knock on your door
But ask myself, are you alone?
A smidgin of pink in a vast grey
A slip of silver white fading to blue
Creases of browns, half full blacks
Dull oranges turning to red
On the other side of the tarmacadam
On the other side of the interrupted
White lines; in both and all directions
Car headlights leave a twinkled glow
Even without the rain, which surely visits
Or has visited already, settled itself down
Into the squidgy peat bogs or drained itself
Off into catchments to by passed escarpments
Bracken-water, for coagulation and chlorination
To become crystal clear and drinkable once more
Yesterday you talked of place
Of the writers three month trip
to the Antarctic; you spoke of the congress
Also of nothingness in everlasting light
On the grey windswept moor
A stones throw from the graves declared
By Brady to torment Longford or to make capital
Out of the somewhat badly affected Myra Hindley
Reed grass angled at a quarter past the hour
Guards over the roughed up rippled water
There are no houses, neither on the horizon
Nor to right or left, human habitats are unseen
Among an unfortunate landscape of tainted beauty
Photographs composed as paintings
They easily suited utopia or dystopia
To cast doubt in that environment
Being entirely natural now, in this hour
Between day and night, here or wherever
In the world certainty is our hoped for companion
As we open the loose hinged doors
Or catch the last bus from the school yard
Or walk through the half lights of the old town
Into a stranger’s bedroom
Into a house of uneasy corridors
Of our own discouraged misunderstandings
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