26

There is a church
With a small spire
It shows a precision
Which its diminutive
Clock face signs off

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25

I have been heavy handed, but
Not in a heavy-handed sort of way
More of having the will to impose my will
On those I thought in need of guidance

Some might say that I was stubborn, yes
In that stubborn-as-hell kind of way
But more I feel as a demonstration
Of my own damned and wretched inflexibility

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24

In this air, which we call our clear air
There floats at least a million dust mites
Yet only for those few moments, with the earth set on its axis
Does the light sparkle through tree and window
There to show off the fine particles, both levitating and travelling
No worry for the coldness, it seems they are knowing full well
That when the brightness disappears then they too will disappear

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23

What is it that troubles me

No I know I haven't told you

And though I take the time to hold you

We haven't yet managed to second guess

To prevent distress I don't ask that you unfold me

No I know you are happy that I hold you

And rather pleased that no, I do not scold you

Yet perhaps it is time to probe, not just to impress

Don't let them fuck you about, it is not compassionate

To be brutal, it is not clever to tear that frail paper

When what it needs is a firm frame to wrap around

It is a tree which speaks well to me of frailty and indecision

With the precision of bonsai the branches point neither

In the way of the road less travelled, or any other road

It is a different tree, more wilful and wild of nature

With the precociousness of a night-after hairdo

Which says more about a night on then town than a night on the tiles

They are the real deal (and I know some people their equal)

I am the faithless pretender (and you know some people my equal)

If you don't want to be alone with me should I be on my own

If you don't want to share thatch and stone with me should I moan

Or just get on and do something about it; my purpose thus to roam

I find people, I lose people, I hope one day that it may slow down

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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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