Four Seasons, Of The First Half-Hour

Restfulness
The winds are still
Trees, without leaves, are in stasis
Even the stream
Well, for sure, it is no longer in spate

Calmness
The sky is entirely grey
Mist, without drive, is ambient
Even the gulls
Apparently they too are in slow motion

Liveliness
The daffodils break through
Bright flushes of sunlight yellow
Even the partridge
Struts his stuff in the vicinity

Peacefulness
The energy to reflect
Space, in which to untangle
Even creative inspiration you see
Warms to the purity of the atmospherics

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More than half way

The window frame
Frames an entirety of trees
The early morning ejaculations
Are accompanied, or so I believe
By the sounds of old trees awakening
Along the side of the mist strewn valley

I take it in my mind
That to capture this view
At this same time
From this same place
With the camera on a tripod
Using remote-control
To dispel all nervous affects

Seven days between visits
Life and growth in my absence
I will not tell you the colours
But as the year surely turns
Much as you travel full circle
Up and down the metropolitan line
The trees give up their lifeblood also

I had it in mind
In the delirium of first light
That one could take nature as a lover
Share conjugal rights, bare ones soul
Shiver in each other's skin
And soak up tobacco together
Treading barefoot, naked
Armed with loud smiles

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Views And Memories (While Driving)

Up towards the horizon
Of thinly spaced winter trees
Freedom is proposed
By the wide and open foreground

Only then, in that instant
Or backalong, down the promenade
Transported to the Americas
To the boulevards and the prairies

O sausages! yes that is what she said
Already in a tither (strop)
But what help could I be
For already I had lost my mobile phone

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Another Time, Another Place

Long bushy eyebrows
Woolen bobble hat
Creased old face
With white eyes
Pierce all
That lie ahead

In the last fling
Of what sort of life
Here, in this northern
East coast town
And not, beside
Horse chestnut trees
On the Champs-Élysées

Is it about ambition
Or the lack of it
Is it about birthright
The gifts of the gifted
Or is it contentment
A life always at ease

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Rights And Privileges

I want now to sit in last night's room
I want to soak up the atmosphere in the Roman cellars

But in these are places
Where I want to engage
In solitary confinement
Even to scare myself
By asking the personal
Dangerous questions
Lower the facade
Of the ubiquitous
Self-important
Self-made man

Afterwards it is true I might well stumble down the stairs
Of the, glass floored, cosmopolitan, drinking establishment

Take too much liquor
Than is good for my sobriety
Or my longevity
Then contemplate
That either way these are the games played out
Or not
Wearing the masks
And deceptions
Of our forefathers
Or our ravishing maidens

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