Purposeful, Purpose Filled

It is 6:30 AM
I have been thinking of first lines for hours
I even considered
Retreading some of the old first lines

I made a pot of Birchall tea
Which brewed as I prepared the bacon
Yet what else escaped my gaze
As I lit the wood burner

I recall I once watched a television programme
About an artist; his flat, and his studio
Were in what has become a fashionable
Part of London; with coffee bars & public bars

He etches, with acids; several layers
He is working on a piece called The Outliers
Which are a set of rocks, at the very end
Of this island of ours, he has been there

In the early morning darkness
We watch the artist, who, with some certainty
Lights a fire, prepares his porridge, makes
Coffee on the stove, and smokes a cigarette

I am reminded of the Yorkshire poet
David Whyte, and his friend's rich experience
Whilst preparing for, and walking on the
El camino de Santiago de Compostela

He tells the story with a certainty
Yet he himself has not yet walked that path
But has written a poetry book called Pilgrims
Perhaps sat at his desk, on his landing at home

We are what we are
We do what we do
We go where we go
It is good that these things are connected

It is also good
That there are disconnections
Room for the imagination to step in
Space for the land of make-believe

To take hold
Time for the half-dreams
On the cusps of waking
On the paths of walking

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Sonics

The song of the sea
Is the song of the train
Is the song of the aeroplane
Is the song of the roadway wagons rolling

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First Two Lines, Gifted As Always

If we took off for the summer
If we took off for a song
If we sort of did a runner
Would you my love, would you come along

If we found the half-light
On the West Atlantic trail
Would you be with me in the morning
As the winds of time set sail

Right now I see the grasses
At the dawning of the night
As the clouds move dusk thus passes
And the lens catches the last of the light

Through the small picture window
The pace of life is steadfastly honed
Each new scene is a movement
Colours so so freely loaned

If we took off for the summer
Would you happily come along
If we sort of did that runner
Would you shout out for a song

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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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