BBB Poem 95

The Clematis Flowers
In late October
After the savage pruning
In the summer

It is as if a soldier
Injured in battle
Had, once recovered
Returned to the front

Now he, and the Clematis
May smile upon the world
To give hope to the rest
That the fight is worthy

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BBB Poem 94

Sunday doesn’t seem a good day anymore
To delve into the peace and the tranquility
Of there being a deeper purpose to life

Instead it appears to have become a day
For movement, for explorations, for visitors
To arrive from Italy, and France, and Spain

Here to pay their religious respects, of sorts
But also to take numinous photographs
And to explain, to those in earshot

The history, the history of the building that is
Not their history, nor my history, such as it is
No, that life history is left for others to discover

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BBB Poem 93

I am sat on Joy Ibsen’s chair
I don’t know if she had much joy in her life
Or if her demeanour lived up to her name
But I guess
As hers is the only name on the chair
She was not lucky
In how might we say, bodily love
Maybe she saved herself
For the good of the lord

Of course I may be mistaken
There may have been more than one suitor
Too many names
To be carved into the elegant chair
Of course it may have been elegance
Elegance above all else
That joy wished to portray
That she wished to be known for
And for many, perhaps
Elegance is next to godliness

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BBB Poem 92

How good do you look
Such that your boyfriend
(I guess he is your boyfriend)
Wants to stop
And take a photograph
Of your shadow
On the cathedral floor

He shows you the shot
And after a few words
You throw your arms around him
And kiss him fully on the lips
Yes, I am pretty sure
He is your boyfriend
At least now I hope so

Ok I know it is not spiritual
Although I do believe love played a part
And I know that is short on religion
Even with the audacious use of the c word

Now it is the thirty-somethings kissing
With their loving teenage children
Trying also to get in on the act
Meanwhile the Breton man
Fondles the stone

And the pushchair
Is pushed, and spun, and twirled
The tall man looks up
At the way taller ceiling
And explains to all who are in earshot
The purpose of the arches

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BBB Poem 91

Several months
Almost a year
Of debilitating pain
Which, however optimistic
One may be superficially
The doubt still remains
The question remains
Will I be cured
Will I be made better

Such that the sleep
Will itself be longer
Than the two hour snatches
Such that the sitting
And the stride about walking
Will be without recourse
To a massage of the shoulder
Or without the need
To nudge a little to the right

I notice the margin is sloping
Yet this is no love poem
No story of abject loss, or lust
For that matter neither a tome
To express the slain of heartbreak
Or the overdue longing of the unrequited
No, not so, however much
I might write of the frozen shoulder
You will always nag away at me

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