Mark, Me, And Double Trouble

Sunlight sidesteps the dune grasses
To find a pathway to the house
Sandstorms fascinate the working classes
Whilst in the Highlands they shoot grouse

But down here in Cornwall
With the Atlantic for a friend
It is the blue sky and the stone wall
Which populate the pictures we send

Of places that tend to the peaceful
As well as might their muse
In her hope to shed, or to end the tearful
With the use of which and whatever ruse

Wave sounds tear apart the eardrums
Television intrudes on the peace
Now broken, the string for the opening strum
With which we set out, to find Summerleaze

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Shaping Up

To do things right
Isn’t my natural way
To do things well
Isn’t where my concentrations lay

Rather to hop-along
Just about to make do
To take short cuts
Not ever to follow through

Yet still equal to most
I think you’ll find
We all have weakness
However feint the signs

In such a strong line
One’s bound to bow
A little
As one wonders how

The good and the great
Built their lives
Set apart
Such that goodness thrives

As if of the beating heart
One could truly desire
As if in the torrent
Lies the prospect of fire

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The Peace Of Torment

A wild wild wind
And a blue blue sky
A pair of denim jeans
On the washing line to dry

Birds that soar
On thermals in June
And birds in February
Which seem to have more room

A surf that roars
As if to cause wonder for all
Coir matting at my feet
With bets open to call

That I might ever
Make anything much
Yet to think of Kavanagh’s comma
Before the word such

And how some choose to use it
While others skip gladly on by
And which is the real way anyway
And does it really at all matter why

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Mathematically Speaking

Would it do;
To count the waves
Or measure
The snowflakes

Would it help;
To stand barefoot in the surf
As the crystals settle
Then melt, on my brow

What might I hold onto
Through physically feeling
What might I gain
By experiencing real experiences

To walk on the pebbles
To stand on the sand
Me, a mid-sixties rebel
From a northern land

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Coursing

The arm shakes, involuntarily
The physiotherapist said that was a good sign
The nerves apparently beginning to feel again
And it is true
All down the length
From shoulder to fingertip
I can hear both pain and communication
As though there are new awakenings
In spontaneous conversation

Yet the words struggle
To pass around the elbow
Formed into a right angle
By the modernist chair
Also, as if to act
As a brake on the traffic
On any other day
I would stand up
And do my exercises

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