Fair Game

I see the woods
I feel the breeze
The light is on
I hear her leave

Out on the path
Between here, and there
His raucous voice
Her wanton stare

I sit and wait
And wonder why
She’s on a date
My turn to cry

I wished them well
What else to do
Just as with bagatelle
I’ve rolled on through

I see the river
I cross the bridge
My flow continues
I climb the ridge

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City Republican

It interests me to sit
One day I will sit a little longer
Today it was a fleeting glimpse

A painter’s impression, of St Petersburg
With a glossed up foreground
Before the romantic misty backdrop

And just how does society
Build such a sociable place
And why does the contrast

Between his vagueness, and her clarity
Create such a heavenly beauty
Such that I desire to observe her more

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Allegory

On a photograph
I saw the stones of Avebury
Shrouded in a dampened mist

It took me to thinking
Of the monks, walking over
The moors, above Buckfastleigh

On their way to Tavistock market
I hope, one day
To meet those soulful souls again

In the realism of the physical world
I have left a trail, just in case
Of which theres is a part

Such that, should they ever wish to find me
The difficulty, if not the surprise
Will be ever more so lessened

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Afterwards

It doesn't have to be like that
The disingenuous one
The simpleton
The alley cat

It doesn't have to be like that
The beauty gone
The angles all wrong
The socialist art statistic

Misfits, and implicitly
Prescriptive; subsidising
All those easy riding
Past and present mystics

What right have I to say what fits
Sticking to how it knits together
Leaving out the lonesome bits
Believing love lives, goes on forever

What right have I to pace and rage
Standing aloof of the human race
Chasing fame from my own perspective
Thinking aloud, of criticisms irrespectively

What right have I, an irksome sod
With no beliefs, or grounds to call
Hooking all, with the line and rod
That's rock and roll, that's all there is

Freedom from the work of stuff
Silence for the classroom tears
Making firm, so brave and tough
Music, poetry, and o, just those years

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Tipping Point

Driving in my car I listen to Runrig’s music, on the radio; I am going away from where Lancashire, Cheshire and Yorkshire all meet

So there I am, leaving the brutality of the Pennine Moors for the gentleness of the flatlands; the Wolds, the coast of, peaceful, agricultural, Lincolnshire

So there I am, I am leaving my past and my present behind me, as I head out to my present, and to my future

And with this message in my mind I observe the skies; passing over where Larkin’s Whitsun Wedding train may well have travelled

To the East there is greyness in abundance; I think to email my new found friend, of the frames of our world renowned ‘big skies’

To the West, and South there are pinks, and golds, and fleeting glimpses of that boldest, brightest blue; that oldest blue of love, which is all that I can say of love, in this precisely precious moment

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