Off The Hook

To find the most meagre of excuses, an exhibit of the unsettled
If only I could have found the bunch of keys
The gardening would have been set to, fettled
This is what absence brings
Left to ones own self, with time to ponder, look
Out of the windows, wonder at the silver lined clouds in a soft blue sky
I had forgotten to water the white orchids
Stems proud but leaves fallen

A present to be kept alive at all costs, so you reminded me
I could have looked harder
Turned the house upside down, as we did in search
Of the theatre tickets; we never found them, though that did not stop us
Easier then, to sit in the silent chair
Sit, in ones own surrounds, wallow
Turn words around in ones head
Think of another task, one more inspiration to follow

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This is Darkness Calling

Without those words: Betrayal, deception
Jealousy, anger, bitterness, revenge…
How we tear ourselves apart
Pull at each aching string, tear each sinew

Without the sunrise in the morning
The quiet time in the meadow
The time to think of roses hung above the door
Spring water dancing on our fingertips

This is darkness calling
Stillness of the night, surreptitious overactive minds
Timeless, distanced from reality, jigsaw pieces of unknown absentees
Before the warmth of the duvet, the fall into the calm of imaginary life

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Blown Along

This is the land of straw in the road
Of early morning agricultural movements
Where frosted verges and tumble down fences
Overlook the horse boxes on their way to the races

This is the land where we make our own smoke clouds
In an otherwise clear blue sky; with no through roads
No easements, no public rights of way there is no lack of
Privacy; no room for openness of communication

Sat down among the brambles, by the overgrown gravestones
Sat high above the cornfields, just before the cutting
Sat inside in the public bar, with an eastern European beer
Sat outside, by the hot tub and the Jacuzzi

It might have been different with a full congregation
Each pew overflowing, each farmer with a chapel,
Each diocese with a sense of order, each bell rung
Each and every Sunday; rung vibrantly, with a sense of purpose

It might have been different without the degradation
Without the gradual decline, without the absence, the closure
The movement into the hands of conservation, without the choice
Or the lack of it, without the desire to find alternative solutions

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Invisible Ball of Wool

I have no more than time, my time
Total; yes that’s true I have my mind,
My mind; that’s hopeful

Sat in the warmth of my own self
My own self, ushered by the peace
Quiet; a quiet wealth

I close my eyes to hear the stars
Faraway; gaze, folded across the
Sky; a clear symbiosis

Blood circulates, I would say free
Free as my heart; I have no more than
Time; my time, total

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High Peak

There is more than a chance
More than cuboids in translation
You would know, poked with a lance,
The freedom of the merest complication
Walk as you would up through the fields
Your eyes blessed, by sight of straight
Ploughed furrows, and the flight of
The well made, dry stone walls

Remember the farmers dance
Silage, as the backdrop sensation
No more in it than a sideways glance
The intricacies of interwoven duplication
Walk as you would to the high ground
Your soul refreshed, by the light on
The sheaves of corn, the light of
Well made thoughts for the day

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