Cigarette Walk

The line of trees

How might I believe

Beyond the night’s darkness

The pathway through the woods

All uphill until

The bright clearing appears

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Sociology

I do not know of Le Bon or of Hippolyte Taine before him, although I did once stay in the Place de la République

The closest that I get to mob culture is in the football crowd, where I occasionally do move from individual thought

Of course I despise those politicians, especially the conservatives, who chose to name group behaviour as mindless and without reason

Instead, even though my own experience questions it, I prefer to believe that I behave as a thoughtful individual, whether alone or when gathered in a crowd

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Scheduling

Ordinary things

Smaller things

A note about the builder

Coming to do repairs

Orgasmic with their climactic noise

Then

When the dry weather arrives

The painter will paint the walls

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Be There

Ash is the hardest tree

And to return the cruellest track

Yet both are in the realm

Of those beautiful days

When the blue skies

And the gentle breeze

Take their turns to play

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Simpler

The questions that I ask

Which no one answers

With a yes or a no

Yet they espouse

The pathway to their house

Or their door

But green is the colour

That I seek

Not stop, nor wait, but go

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Step

I go there

I go there

I end there

I end there with you

I smile

I laugh

Also I cry

I end there with you

I had to be alone

Life was too too intrusive

But I like your picture

I always go there with you

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Bedroom Reflections

A sink

With a mirror

Another mirror

For make up

One wall of wardrobes

One with a full length mirror

A bay window

To one side of the bed

A Mark Rothko print

On the opposite wall

Above the king-size double bed

A row of cupboards

All of this for certainty

Among the uncertainty

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Feeling

Outcast

I have cast myself out

And I am slowly forgetting

How to reopen the door

Bitterness

Helps me to be bitter

Humour

Helps me to smile

Happiness

Follows swiftly

As I sit, secure

In my meditation chair

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Proof

I started writing

Seriously

At the same age

That Shakespeare died

We were both fifty-two

He was a Stratford-On-Avon

And London lad

I have travelled further than he

All the counties of England

As well as many European cities

Have felt my footsteps

Also the line of my pen

But can I be certain

That he had not been there

Before me

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Hook

Every girl

Needs a name

As she becomes

Woman

One or two

Would do

But neither

To be honest fit

So take time

Search high and low

Hither and thither

Until you fall firm

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Castle Window

I remember a girl

Tall and thin

Wearing a see-through blouse

Which I unbuttoned

To fondle and kiss

Her uncovered breasts

Later we had intercourse

For which I was prepared

I had brought a Featherlite

Which she showed me

How to lubricate and install

We were both of age

But only just

She was the vicar’s daughter

To begin

The movements were slow

But quite soon

We were going steady

Then it all ended

And we didn’t see

Each other naked ever again

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Mon Plaisir

Out of Mind

I often return

The house

The lane

The road

The esplanade

The sands

The sea

Undressing

My mind

Step by step

Door by door

Doubt by doubt

Into the present

Out of the past

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