22

We are doing all of those things that we didn't have time to do
We are fulfilling all of those promises that we didn't have time to fulfil

Yet still I retreat
Into that silent solace shell
That quiet place where I love to dwell
Yet knowing that for others it is their living hell

I am escaping from those who are close to those who are close to me
I am indicating my displeasure yet achieving less than nought you'll see

Yet still I repeat
Once again the same mistake
My inherent stubbornness it is no fake
Jealousy is always the fiend I choose to rake

We are all having fun, we are all going places, days on the beach, days at the races
We did have fun, we did follow our traces, days on the beach, those old familiar chases

Yet still in deceit
I hide deep behind the word
Driving along nudging the highway kerb
Always doing what I do, intending to disturb

We are building rooms, fireplaces and floors
We are replacing windows; drawing plans, buying wooden doors
We did construct; wardrobes, bathrooms, kitchen shelves
Only then to destruct; gardens, pathways, it was your living hell

Yet still my mind is fleet
Always unfulfilled, inside out
Hard to whisper, harder still to shout
Never committing, fearing the doubt

We are going away, to an isolated cottage in the dales
With friends, with family, with wine, with real ale
We went away, to an island hotel by the sail
Taking the children, to a place where all they did was wail

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21

So many comparisons that pass me by
So many similar inferences where I am oblivious
Is this how the older sisters see their younger brother
Are his unfathomable abilities on the same plain

It is that time, at the end of the day, after an evening of reading, writing, eating and watching television; chasing opportunities for self-reflection, chasing ideas for onwards extrapolation, searching out what isn't there anymore, what most likely was neither there before.

But it doesn't hurt to dream does it, and these are the thoughts that precede the dreams; these are the my self becoming aware of my most inner and intimate self.

When I do go back to what might have happened, what might have been meant by those soft sensual words and o so tender embraces, what might I have implied from those passionate looks, and the nooks and crannies of physical progressions.

So many illustrations that I can use for illusion
So many commentaries that one day I might replicate
Is this how the young boy overwhelmed his family
As his indeterminate talents exceeded all expectations.

It is that time, in the clear light of day, after a morning of working and buying presents; losing, or leaving behind any detritus from the former, any joy from the latter.

Such that now we one might think of oneself as a writer; not a Colm Toibin or anyone heavyweight, but as a lightweight who lets the words drop onto the page as snow might fall, without story or setting, without hook or strap line.

Not even time for my self to to engage with my inner, or my intimate self, for now all I do is to look forwards, towards the next virgin page, to the next empty notebook of a life yet to be lived, of actions yet to be determined, of loves and lusts yet to be chased, or reinforced, or discarded.

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20

We all lose our way sometimes don't we
I know I've lost mine once or twice

With my head in my hands
Wondering what's gone wrong
Pray don't let anyone see me like this

She calls me in the sad times
In the bad times of the morning
She sways me as the dust might
As the devil in disguise, soaring

And with my head in my hands
Stone cold and wondering
Pray don't let anyone see me like this

If all I ever did was write
Record songs and make movies
If all I ever did was fight
Bang on relentless drinking smoothies

So few words one to the other
Call out into the silence
See what I shall freely uncover

Under the rainbow
Still feeling blue
Always in the search
Of that beauty what's true

It's all of a fashion
To trespass on the other self
To remember nights of passion
Sat here in fading health

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19

The toys are the toys are the toys that we lose
A light goes out each time we choose
The loss is the loss is the loss that turns to bruise
Darkness is the shadow of the parting news

Some dreams don't matter anymore
Yet still the catkins emerge in December
Some thoughts forever surge and pour
Yet still the difficulty is to remember

The noise is the noise is the noise that we lose
A lamp flickers each time we choose
The eyes are the eyes are the eyes to see the bruise
Sorrow is the meadow of the parting news

Some pleasures don't hit the higher score
Yet still the snow settles in December
Some scents say bonjour mon amour
Yet harder dwell the words to send her

The boys are the boys are the boys that we lose
A candle quenched each time we choose
The sense is the sense is the sense to feel the bruise
Hurtful is the emotion of the parting news

Some hopes wait behind the closing door
Yet the dustbowl still blows in December
Some images fall beneath the boarded floor
Yet don't doubt yourself, you are the defender

Darkness is the shadow of the parting news
Yet still the catkins emerge in December
Sorrow is the meadow of the parting news
Yet still the snow settles in December

Hurtful is the emotion of the parting news
Yet the dustbowl still blows in December
Some dreams don't matter anymore
Yet the difficulty is to remember

Some pleasures don't hit the score
Yet harder dwell the words to send her
Some hopes wait behind the closing door
Yet don't doubt yourself you are the defender

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18

Now we might put the flowers way behind us
The scents of freesias, and lilies, to lie behind us
Check out the flights of those early carnations
Even consider lavender to be more than herb

And in that time, however long
Of putting the flowers way behind us
And on that flight, however far
Of no longer being beside the carnations

Now we might put the flowers long behind us
The illness and confusion of love and recovery
Or we may stand silent, in the open doorway
Even consider stepping slowly down the hallway

And in that place, however untimely
Of being confused by flowers long behind us
And in that mood, however distant
Of no longer being still shadows in the doorway

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