Sitting

I was sat on the floor
We didn't have too many chairs
I was listening toVan Morrison's
Instrumental song Scandinavia

The children were laughing
At my attempts to write lyrics
I wasn't too good with words
Even less useful with beat and rhythm

I am sat at my desk
The office is full of workstations
I am listening to the air conditioning
And the abject absence of camaraderie

The bosses are all crying
At our failed attempts to make profits
I was never too good with the money
Even less capable with the deceit

I will walk out on the salt marshes
I know there to be a bench on the path
I will listen to the breeze and the birdsong
As they capture the precise present moments

The tourists choose to be joyful and mindful
Interested with my attempts at description
I was never too good with the knowledge
Yet I am ever more trustful, of the feelings

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Projections

It wasn't a daydream, it wasn't a night dream, it happened in that halfway space; time between the waking and the sleeping, before rising to face the day ahead.

I had met a young, vibrant, energetic, joyful and attractive reporter, at an international industrial 'expo' exhibition in Milan.

We had snacked together, we had laughed together, we had talked of nothing at all, and now she wanted to interview me, for an article in her lifestyle magazine.

I wanted her to say that Christopher was a new age engineer, that he goes to Manjushri Buddhist Temple to meditate, that he writes poetry and wears Victor & Rolf Spice Bomb Extreme eau de cologne, that he wears John Frieda serum to keep his permed auburn hair soft to touch, that he drives a Lexus Convertible when not out on the plains riding his Harley Davidson.

We arranged to meet at lunchtime. I was walking through the crowds when I felt the need for a nature break; the temporary facilities had full length glass windows, and were located by a path where all the womenfolk walked by; I wasn't phased, yet neither a show-off, I discretely released my fluids.

Back in the throng the young reporter had put on her swish silk coat, she was going around in circles looking out for me, when she at last saw me she ran across and hugged me; "Where can we go" she said. I suggested the large lecture hall auditorium, she said no that was too public, could we go somewhere quieter, to one of the small intimate rooms, up by the organisers offices.

We bought a coke and a sandwich, then strode off together most happy.

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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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