From Newhaven To Buxton

Delicate pink flowers in the verges
A thin slip of blue sky, beneath the black clouds
Which hover over the long and flat far distant horizon
I drive by; where are you now

Flourishing purple thistle chokes the fine grasses
A strong West to East breeze blows
Across the taller species
I drive by; why did we go separate ways

Real Jersey Milk at the Caravan Club campsite
Early morning railway freight wagons queue
At the entrance to Hope Quarry
I drive by; when will I forgive myself

Mist shrouds the valley of the near distant town
Striped circus tents, and gypsy caravans, beside the festival field
Black plastic covered, rolled up bales, on the lime-green grass
I drive by; would it have mattered

If I had stopped to breathe, if I had taken you a photograph

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Mist

The verges and the hedgerows are laden with the damp of night. The sky is silver grey, cloudy, overcast, with the light of a dull morning.

The dew, on the grass of the mansion house lawn, suggests the steadiness of life. The road is lined both sides by an avenue of trees.

In just a few weeks time I will be taking prayers, with the brothers on blended knees.

It is the heartache of the hurt, might I boldly say the painful reign of the cold lost love. I don't wish to dish the dirt, for it is solid gold love stories which I wish to be told.

We make each other smile, we go the extra mile, we dress ourselves in style, as down life's random paths we file.


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HH

He sits in India
I sit in Alfreton
He looks at temples
I look at computers

He is contemplative
I am somewhat disruptive
He is a painter
I play at being a poet

He does not let
Anyone see him work
I rather like
To show off to others

He is careful, thoughtful
With responses to questions
I am in more of a rush
To say anything at all

He is sometimes evasive
You might even say elusive
I am transparent, though
Mostly a shade ambiguous


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Vast Peace

There is time to be made
Slow time
For the writing, for the thinking
This room, in its quietness
Is the place, a place
With a view becoming
A gateway to joyful understanding
For out there all exists
Such that, life
Is open for interpretation

Also, before the window
An interior
A room for reflective monologue
Internal monoliths
Standing stones of thought
With occasional, or more often
Drifts on to the breeze
Just then, just there, you
To seize the auto-grandissement
Of little more than nothing at all


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Theme For The Evening

Blue sky, blue sea, bold blue horizon; the plume of blue vapours as the aeroplane engines throb into blue motion.

The couple sat in front went straight into their blue bottled vodka, and those vintage crisps with salt wrapped in blue grease-paper

Oliver Reed stood up and began to tell a very blue story, his language blue in the extreme; yet just like lightning blue his mind whizzed along, as if he was Donald Campbell in his blue-streak, or was it blue-bird land-speed record breaking car

The blue suited stewardess asked Oliver to please sit down, in his blue velvet, first class, blue ribbon seat

We landed through the blue haze, over the azure blue sea; Oliver now fast asleep, occasionally twitching, as his blue-movie dreams came closer to life


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