I come back to this room
I come back to this room
Where a few minutes ago
I was listening to David Whyte
Listening to David Whyte read his poetry
As well as him telling a fine tale
About himself, and John O’Donohue
Talking of to go against yourself
Go against yourself - a neat Irish phrase
And, or so it seems to me
One not entirely at odds with
Being told not to interfere
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Still to love
The one you love
Even though that love
May be unrequited
For they too
Cannot truly see that thought
When they think
That they no longer love you
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A cheap choc-ice
A Christmas card
For the benefit
Of retired jockeys
A piping hot
Cup of tea
And the wood-burner
So so fully alight
Such a rush
Out of the evening nap
Such a world
To break into, or out of
Taken to ones doze
With words about William Wordsworth
With words about Thomas A Clarke
With words about Frank O’Hara
Such a literary stroll
Towards the light sleep
Such a poetic saunter
To those moments of grace
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I cannot watch my thought
Rudolf Steiner says so
Yet I can watch the dust mote fall
Through the air as I write this
Yes I am able, to watch, and to write
At almost one and the same time
Yet, to view that thought just then about you
No, no that is no longer possible
I could go back further in time
Maybe find a photograph for reference
Yet however strong the concentration
That thought, in real time, would not be visible
Yes I could imagine walking, on firm rippled sands
Even to be running, towards the Machair, in the rain
Yet, as I think I thought these thoughts
I cannot see my own thought processes
I will myself, to make certain things happen
And already you may know where this is going
Yet it seems that I cannot help myself
No matter that I cannot see through to the thought
Yes, nostalgia may interrupt, or interject
Messages might arise from deeply buried memories
Yet no amount of persistence, or even shadow boxing
Will let the ether of me, see the fading thought of you
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The air of past permissions
Rings quietly anew
No amount of indecisions
Can taint the favoured hue
O ship of ice
O sky of blue
O tumbling spice
O pray be true
The fair of cold collisions
Rings quietly anew
No count of derisions
Can paint the boarding crew
O ship of ice
O sky of blue
O tumbling spice
O pray be true
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How easy it is
To change a word or phrase
Either to save face, or
To create an entire new meaning
How insincere the lead pencil
Which allows the eraser
To make disappear
What once was gifted
So, in the next book
A return to pen and ink
Once more to go down the tramlines
To a certain, if unreachable, destination
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Sat
With my arm on the warm radiator
Waiting
For my tea-time meal to be served
There you have it
In my 65th year
Not too too cold too too often
Not too too hungry, or anywhere near
So, a charmed life
Do I hear you say
Or an ordinary life
For those who know me better
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I ought to write
About the light fading
About the wind turbines
Slowing down
About the frost
Laying deep, and crisp, and even
I ought to tell you
That this is the top
Of the Pennines, near to
My forefather’s roots
That nearby are still
Some of my family
I could tell you
That as I sat, in those
Spare few moments
And after
A calm conversation
With my eldest son
I had an empathy
For everyone who
Feels themselves
To be alone
Or feels themselves
To be lonely
I know that the emerging
Darkness, and the loss
Of the horizon
Will do little
Or nothing at all
To relieve their pain
I have all but completed
My Christmas shopping
Cards, and gifts
For family and friends
Who, through my sixty-five years
Have mostly spared me
From the emptiness of loneliness
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The light was cold
The wet tarmac
Reflected the sun
Causing me
To close my eyes
This is December I thought
Late on in my life
Yet I feel
Way younger
Than those about me
The mornings pain
Is in the very centre
Of my upper back
Just below
The neck line
The day is calm
Although
The tea bags are split
And have made a mess
I send an email to complain
The wild green moss
On next doors
Rickety shed roof
Glistens, as do the catkins
Which wave in the breeze
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