Later

This is the evening
To be in bed early
Listening to Meredith Monk
Listening to the wind
Being hopeful for my children

The wind might take me anywhere
You also, if you choose to journey
Yes, you also, if you join the journey

To walk beside the dry stone walls
To walk up the hills, to walk down the dales
With the all that there is to see all around us

Not in search of faith, nor spirituality
Or peace, or outward calm, but rather
Simply to be there; to see all, to hear all

Not that I am giving up the exploration
As to who I am, or more importantly for
Who I might become; who might I become

Yet all the while
To breathe, knowing the breath
To smile, knowing the smile

To speak with compassion and generosity
To hold hands, and wish well
For all whose paths we cross

This is the evening
To be in bed early
Listening to Meredith Monk
Listening to the wind
Being hopeful for my friends

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25th

This is the day
When we don’t have visitors to the house
This is the day
Of so so very few interruptions

There are no letters or parcels
Although the days, and the weeks
Leading up to this day have been a riot
Of postmen, couriers, and delivery drivers

There are no telephone canvas calls
To tell us about the latest developments
In double glazing or broadband communication
Which could warm us up, or which could speed us up

This is the day
When the coloured lights glow for themselves
Where the music crosses with the liturgy
When the cooking just takes a little longer

There are cards, presents, annual gifts
Though not all are here to collect theirs
For they too are becalmed also
In their quiet houses, on this quiet day

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The Writer Paused

It wasn’t always thus he says
With a benign smile of nowhereness
There once was a time, filled with enthusiasm
For each and every word

Now the openness of emptiness has closed in
The need for nothing, or at least the thought of it
Is becoming the thrust, the thrust now to follow
And so the empty rooms, and discarded railway lines

Can best mark the space for the virgin page
To make its entrance, less visible than ink
Yet more sustainable than lead, the parchment
Dies, for the irritant thoughts to be laid to rest

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Pest Of A Presence

Goddess
Good god
Twelve years now
I have lived with this woman
Yet still, she sees you
As my goddess

And, as for myself
Well
Knowing that there is no hope
I am able, at the last
To describe you as no more
Than mere mortal

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Sketch, Listen, Read, Write

Where is the going going to
In the straight lines
In the squares
In the cubes

And why wear a shirt
With flowers in pink and blue
With buttons in pink and blue
With turn up cuffs, in pink and blue

As if a contradiction
To contradict the pain
In the upper back and neck
And in the left side frozen shoulder

Yet no more at odds
Than to be listening to Arvo Part
Or reading Jean Jacques Rousseau’s
Reveries of the Solitary Walker

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