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Friday, 5 September 2014

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 I have never 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


Thursday, 4 September 2014

Findhorn Forest

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

Kate somehow manages, just after noon
To bring the flash 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 its age, the time of life
Before it became a new human support venture

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, only

To paint the words of grace and patience
Onto machine made porcelain mugs


Wednesday, 3 September 2014

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 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 natural

That sounds
More like
An engagement with life to me


Tuesday, 2 September 2014

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
Could he take in, on this night
This night
That was only yet in late afternoon

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



Monday, 1 September 2014

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

Did I not go on to the rooftop
Was it not possible to look down on the prison
Are these simply, a nowadays, imagination

I am more certain
Of a formidable figure hung high
In the university dining halls

He was overlooking
Indeed overpowering the diners
As they sat in the refectory

As they stumbled through their lunch
As they remained, strangers one and all
Who left my life, without a single memory