Building Project

I am observing roof beams
And their agricultural attachments
Then, quite unexpectedly
I hear the birdsong

I could quite easily take a nap

With the sun warming me
Through my jet-black clothing

With my mind slowing down
To the pace of cake and coffee

I have to make a move, to re-engage

This space, or its equivalent
Could be formed from our old
Stables - yes it would work
And we ought to get on with it

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Stove

I see you at the first light
I see you as a buddha might
In his gold and contemplative robes

It is true I suffer from the short sight
Never knowing how to put things right
That is, as it seems, the way life goes

I cross the bridge of dear delight
So lucky to have caught that last flight
There is a purpose I presuppose

Sipping gin, and feeling tight
Floating high and flying kites
Every which way the wind blows

At the lake, close on up to midnight
Trailing paths and fleeing fright
It is the time when the love grows

Our fire of hope is burning bright
We have a fair and reasonably clear
Hold of the insight

Wait for the dreams
As dreamers only know
We are turning back to the first light

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Repeatedly

I lost my way
Easier to
Harder to
Nearer to
Far further away

I look on the day
Uncertain
Unsettled
Unusually
With momentum

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Repeat

I lost my way
It all came too easily
I lost my way
But today
Things are going to change

It is time to rearrange
Discard what’s no longer needed
Feed my mind and body
With all that’s good and better
Lift the hood and take a look

Undue what’s stuck
Run amok with the new
Become one of the few
To do just what you choose
It's as easy to win as to lose

I lost my way
I’ve done it so often
I lost my way
But today
Things are going to change

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Out Of Reach

Sulphurous dust parades along the fragmented lines of the faraway horizon
To the south a fire cloud is billowing, yet so faraway that the source remains unseen

The artist would make a better job of this than my words have ever conjured; my friend, the photographer, he would have captured both the essence of the scene, and the escarpments of my mood in its reflection

I am tempted to leave it at that - to know when one is beaten is no bad thing is it?

The problem though is that the artist and the photographer were not present, they never are, and they most likely never will be

I will persevere, recollecting my night overlooking Lyme Regis promenade when I innocently professed about the way the writer has more tools, at his elbow, than either the picture taker or the picture maker; right now I am a little unsure about my poem Now There Is No Horizon; for perhaps I have gone beyond

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