Stretch

The infinite is finite
So strip away the debris
Find the salient sentient self
Bathe in shallow waters
Float on settled seas
The finite is infinite
So strip away the debris

From the salient sentient self
Tear those last few leaves
Scatter to find a path
Shuffle to make a journey
The finite infinite
Is finite, so
Strip away the debris

Early Viewing

Already; bright greens, soft pinks; light breezes, strong winds
Over and away, where there is no one already knowing
One to one and one to many, all for doubt and all for show

I engage in the anti-calm of memory
While listening to the mindfulness of breathing
What is the sense of the tree branches
Vibrantly and frantically waving
What is the sense of the wild, stirring whistle
Through the ill-fitting doors and windows

Already; lilacs, photographs; daffodils, enamel jugs
Under and near, where there is no one already deceiving
One to one and one many times over, all for love and all for show

Break

We had spelt bread
Sandwiches
With cheddar, cucumber and rocket

We sat outside of what is to become
Our creative and meditative salon
A hundred years of dust on our faces

One more morning's, hard and dirty
Labouring work in there behind us
Many days of future joy ahead

How will we hang the pictures
How will we lay the chairs
How will we choose the music

The flags are to be pressure cleaned
A border of Cotswolds cobbles
To act as our French drain

Richard is due to return
To complete the glazing's
Red cedar cladding

In the chiaroscuro
Glasses of pink champagne
Printed invitations and Bon homie

A hundred years
Of civilisation in our hearts
On the day we ate spelt bread

Retreat

I have to smile, even when
The feeling was, way back then

I can't explain, what blue skies do
I am peaceful now, my love is true

Holiday time, on open roads
Time to be, time to see the broads

I have to smile, as if in zen
I had worked it out, with my friend

Reclaimed Land

The legs of the wicker chair
Sink into the turned over ground
The breeze blows over my face
Bringing with it the birdsong

Andrew chops logs
With the splitting maul
He wears yellow safety glasses

Ruth and Kate turn soil
As if turning soil and talking
Comes naturally-ordained
To womankind's evolution

Springtime in England
For simple folks
With pastures to cherish