Shag & Oyster Catcher

O just to be
Beside the clouds and the sea
On this fine February day

O to step free
Onto the sands of the lea
On this week of my birthday

O to think on
Of poem and song
As I sketch out these few words

O to be strong
For all that’s gone wrong
As I mention the birds

O they’ve returned
To seas they once spurned
In the years before yesterday

O life so we burn
As if to regular confirm
That the past is in the futures way

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As It Is, As It Was

That we should know this place in February
Yet not in the middle of July
That we should shape ourselves for winter
As we wait for summers past to pass us by

The waves turn; turn, then turn again; towards
Wolf Rock, by the beach at Widemouth Bay
That Johnny Cash should be the Spotify song
After your ear wax candle day

That with kindling wood, and firelighters
The wood burner fires up first time this time
We photograph waves, rocks, and pebbles
And other geological formations quite sublime

Adam, and Eve; or at least today’s equivalent
Step up, to stride across the boardwalk
The skies, the clouds, the sun, and snow
Embrace the day, which we mark with chalk

We might be grateful, and thankful
Mindful that we share this spiritual occasion
Not a party; when more came than needed to
And only one channel of television to evade

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Who To Turn To

Where are you now my calm sea
Where is it that I will never be
How far to reach from the desert of now
How soon becalmed by the wondering of how

Nothing, or little else to say
No more prescriptions, or hopes to delay
The waves are stilled, from sand to horizon
The smiles, though feint, bring the surprise on

That all will be well some day
Pain will subside for memories to play
To sit in the armchair, listening
To Gregorian chant with thoughts whistling

Without time to stand still, hearing
The ringing, hearing the tunnel of bells
Thinking of that time, in the sauna, on Skye
With a phone call from a friend

Yes, a phone call from a friend
Moving on is what we do, and so
Began the morning poem, lend
Me your time, for I am moving on

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Collector’s Items

It is my old painful body
It is my tired forgetful soul
It is my mind
With recent short-fall of memory
Which sees the horizon
But misses the sea

Soothed, by a meditation mantra
Uninhibited by the flashing light
Which signifies no internet connection

I have pastels
I have pen and ink
I have the Atlantic at my window
I have an old birthday card
Which was never sent
For it also had deeper meaning

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Treadmill

And so here you are
And so there you are
And so we look at you right now

And so here we are
And so there we are
And so we look at you right now

And of those times I write no more
Of those times I write no more
No, no more to write of those times

And so I write no more
I write no more of those times
No, of those times I write no more

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