25

I have been heavy handed, but

Not in a heavy-handed sort of way

More of having the will to impose my will

On those I thought in need of guidance

Some might say that I was stubborn, yes

In that stubborn-as-hell kind of way

But more I feel as a demonstration

Of my own damned and wretched inflexibility

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24

In this air, which we call our clear air

There floats at least a million dust mites

Yet only for those few moments, with the earth set on its axis

Does the light sparkle through tree and window, there

To show off the fine particles, both levitating and travelling

No worry for the coldness, it seems they are knowing full well

That when the brightness disappears then they too will disappear

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23

What is it that troubles me

No I know I haven't told you

And though I take the time to hold you

We haven't yet managed to second guess

To prevent distress I don't ask that you unfold me

No I know you are happy that I hold you

And rather pleased that no, I do not scold you

Yet perhaps it's time to probe and not just impress

Don't let them fuck you about, it is not compassionate

To be brutal, it is not clever to tear that frail

Paper when what it needs is a firm frame to wrap around

It is a tree which speaks well to me of frailty and indecision

With the precision of bonsai the branches point neither

In the way of the road less travelled, or any other road

It is a different tree, more wilful and wild of nature

With the precociousness of a night-after hairdo, which says

More about a night on then town rather than a night on the tiles

They are the real deal (and I know some people their equal)

I am the faithless pretender (and you know some people my equal)

If you don't want to be alone with me should I be on my own

If you don't want to share thatch and stone with me should I moan

Or just get on and do something about it; my purpose, to roam

I find people, I lose people, I hope one day that it may slow down

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22

We are doing all of those things that we didn't have time to do

We are fulfilling all of those promises that we didn't have time to fulfil

Yet still I retreat

Into that silent solace shell

That quiet place where I love to dwell

Yet knowing that for others it is their living hell

I am escaping from those who are close to those who are close to me

I am indicating my displeasure yet achieving less than nought you'll see

Yet still I repeat

Once again the same mistake

My inherent stubbornness it is no fake

Jealousy is always the fiend I choose to rake

We are all having fun, we are all going places, days on the beach, days at the races

We did have fun, we did follow our traces, days on the beach, those old familiar chases

Yet still in deceit

I hide deep behind the word

Driving along nudging the highway kerb

Always doing what I do, intending to disturb

We are building rooms, fireplaces and floors, we are replacing windows; drawing plans, buying wooden doors

We did construct; wardrobes, bathrooms, kitchen shelves; only then to destruct; gardens, pathways, your living hell

Yet still my mind is fleet

Always unfulfilled, inside out

Hard to whisper, harder to shout

Never committing, fearing the doubt

We are going away, to an isolated cottage in the dales, with friends, with family, with wine, with real ale

We went away, to an island hotel by the sail, taking the children, to a place where all they did was wail

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21

So many comparisons that pass me by

So many similar inferences where I am oblivious

Is this how the older sisters see their younger brother

Are his unfathomable abilities on the same plain

It is that time, at the end of the day, after an evening of reading, writing, eating and watching television; chasing opportunities for self-reflection, chasing ideas for onwards extrapolation, searching out what isn't there anymore, what most likely was neither there before. But it doesn't hurt to dream does it, and these are the thoughts that precede the dreams; these are the my self becoming aware of my most inner and intimate self. When I do go back to what might have happened, what might have been meant by those soft sensual words and tender embraces, what might I have implied from those passionate looks and the accompanying physical progressions.

So many illustrations that I can use for illusion

So many commentaries that one day I might replicate

Is this how the young boy overwhelmed his family

As his indeterminate talents exceeded all expectations

It is that time, in the clear light of day, after a morning of working and buying presents; losing, or leaving behind any detritus from the former, any joy from the latter. Such that now we one might think of oneself as a writer; not a Colm Toibin or anyone heavyweight, but as a lightweight who lets the words drop onto the page as snow might fall, without story or setting, without hook or strap line. Not even time for my self to to engage with my inner or my intimate self, for now all I do is to look forwards, towards the next virgin page, to the next empty notebook of a life yet to be lived, of actions yet to be determined, of loves and lusts yet to be chased, or reinforced or discarded.

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