47

The afternoon is almost over
Pink light graces the sky
Settled snow, on leaves, on branches
Operatic music stills to naught
He wonders
Not what would have happened
Had he followed a grander course
Been a sharp-suited risk taker

But with ears ringing continuously
Even as quietness falls
He recognises, happily
That this is the kind of peace to care for
He was going to say; quite happily
But he stopped, thought a while
Then upgraded the rating, as though
He still worked for Standard & Poor

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46

Such a light falls on the stove
The ashes glow stronger than the embers
The flames disappear into the fiercer sun

Yet outside, the skies are pitch black
The ground is covered with snow
Seems it would be good

To roast an old chestnut
As flies of white ash pay homage
To yesterday evenings blizzard

The quiet meditation
And the harmonious chanting
Smooth a path for any further revelation

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45

It matters not that in that moment I was in that moment
All that matters now is that that moment is passed
And that that moment will never return

He talks of being rebuffed by the actress
Truth is he never really made his move
He did no more than smile at her on stage
And write a few words of introduction

It matters not that there is no future, no future moment
All that matters is that that future which we talked about
Was bypassed, in a sort of days-of-future-past moment

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44

I am on that easy street
Warm wool socks
On my fresh bathed feet

Feeling good, feeling neat
Softer rock
With a rich, irregular beat

I have this time
To sit half still
I have the dime
With desire to fill

I think on back, to that seat
No more clocks
Nor ledgers to complete

Looking out, as if on retreat
Swirling frocks
With feelings running deep

I have this line
As if by that rill
I have my mind
Where hope is distilled

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43

This is one warm feeling
I don't give a fig to what others say
To have the beautiful pleasure
A calm, energised, peaceful mind
As the snow falls
And the logs on the wood-burner
Glow
And the music, on the stereo
Is as liquor on curvaceous glass
Is as footprints in soft, warm-wet sand

No remorse, neither escape from nostalgia
To go just wherever that last thought takes me
As if to candy floss at the fairground
As if to that kiss, along the Golden Mile
There is no need to go deeper
All of depth is already in our memory
Or in our projections for the future

Remember Findhorn Foundation
The beach through the forest
Yachts in the bay
Walks to the pub, and to the store
Then the road out to Ullapool
With moorland, mountains
Ponds at the roadside
With deep reflections
Of sun and moon

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