Views & Desires

I am impatient
I have no time for this poetry dressed up as art
Yet I know for sure it is just a time thing
That with a clearer head I would absorb it fully
I would even turn to talk of love
Though never have I yet been able to talk of love
As finely as that fair old Mr Robin Robertson

I am impatient
I have no time for sitting and waiting
Yet I know for sure that once on board
The ferry time will pass even more slowly
That only then will I be able to look back
On that idyllic cottage by the stream
Somewhere on the way to Ullapool


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Findhorn Forest

In the shade of the pine
With pebbles & sand at my feet
I sit on the log barrier to have my photograph taken

Kate somehow manages, just after noon
To bring the flashbulb into action
It was clever, she says later
To the accompaniment of beating drums

The pine brush carries it's own random patterns
Rings of the sawn log gives away its age
A span of life before becoming further human solace

Times, and places run their course
Where once there was unfettered imagination
Coupled with a freedom of will there is now ageing

Rituals with repetition which in turn lead to decay
We are all  in need of the search for a new beginning
A new motivation; but it is no longer sufficient

To paint the words
Of grace and patience, onto ceramic mugs

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Findhorn

The dust of previous occupancy
Smothers any possibility
Of individual reckoning

Like a swathe of blankets
Thick in felt and embroidery
The weight of others is overbearing

Yet this place
Names itself
The centre for community

I wonder
Why then do I feel so estranged -
I determine to retreat to the pebble beach

Take solace with the solitary fisherman
Cast my cares to the clouds
Throw my woes on the rolling sea

The talk turns
To Finnish lodges
In the heart of the forest

A place to sauna
& swim
Au naturel

This sounds
More like
An engagement with life to me


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Truly lost

He was in a city outskirts shop doorway
Head in his hands he sat befuddled
The drink had hold of him
He clutched his navy blue carrier bag

No amount of explanation
Would he take in on this night
This night
That was only yet in it's late afternoon stage

I won't ever see him again
Neither wonder at his whereabouts
Except for through these few words:
Adios amigo



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Van Mildert’s Portrait

At first I thought of it as a week of my life

Without a single memory 

I sat in the cathedral and pondered

All those years ago did I not go on to the rooftop

Was it not possible back then to look down on the prison

Are these simply a nowadays imagination

I am more certain

Of a formidable figure

Whose portrait hung high

In the university halls

He was overlooking

Indeed overpowering the diners

As they sat in the refectory

And stumbled through lunch

We remained strangers one and all

They left my life, without a single memory


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