Third Morning

It is the grey mist that wraps itself
Around our borrowed houses

It is the cold air that enters through
Our closed and open windows

It is the time that will bring back
The blue sky and the sunlight

It is all of these and more
Perhaps

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KL 1490

It is the simplicity, there to make one more attractive
In this case a cloth belt, wrapped twice around the waistline
Just sufficient, to create the outline of the female form
Adding to the beauty of this world everlasting

The flight represents the spread of nations, humanity
On the move. We question the goodness of people
I am inclined to think more good, maybe many more
Kate is inclined to think less good, maybe many more less

Beside me the passenger reads
Chapter XIII of William and the Ancient...
We do not share conversation. I write these few words
To remind me of a Saturday morning, the first in April

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Overdone

I didn’t go to meditation
I didn’t go on a spiritual retreat
I didn’t have a soothing massage
Nor have reflexology for my feet

Mostly I did nothing, nothing
Neither in nor out of doors
I didn’t go big city shopping
Nor set-to, on washing the floors

First plans fell by the wayside
Taking the wind out of our sails
Snowfall and the fearful frost fright
Forced the horse-racing off the rails

We did drive out into the country
For a pale ale and pub pie lunch
We walked through the graveyard
To hear our footfalls crisply crunch

I didn’t offer up much excitement
My conversations so slow to start
I hope I didn’t mean to mislead you
Your place is firmly in my heart

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Escapology

I have no more desire
My desire’s run through
I have no one else to tell
My colour’s turned blue

The unsteadiness of breeze
Rocks me as the aspen leaf
Thoughts of a ne’er-do-well
My riptide spurns its grief

I have the telegraph time
My rhyme’s still to choose
I haven’t a defining spell
My delectations are loose

The dull-grey cloudy sky
Folds away as the thief
Tomorrow I’ll maybe dwell
My hope is thus so brief

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6:23

Grey skies
Don’t stop the birdsong
Windblown hedges
Don’t dampen their spirits

I have risen early
For no real purpose
It is too soon
To make my love her tea

Poetry doesn’t begin this way
Even for Mr Bukowski
Why, by now there ought to be
Profanity, or words more profound

But, as the too slow camper-van
Crossing the New York Bridge
I also am moving too slowly
I need reminding how to flow

Perhaps a meditation
To contemplate the light
Say thanks to all creation
And the wonders of the night

Maybe an invitation
To a debutante’s ball
Or another Gatsby glorification
To sound his lost lover’s call

Besieged by past temptation
I stride out towards the fall
There is no simplification
When love to know is all

The love of one another
The brook beside the brawl
The sister and the brothers
The familiar tone to stall

As richness becomes discovered
And spitefulness is turned around
The day moves on upwards
Sad thoughts banished to ground

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