Give What You Can

We are drawing to a close
Although the last session
Ends late tomorrow morning

But this is our final Family Dharma
Where deep issues are brought
To the surface, to be opened out

Today I will tell of a letter
Which I wrote to my father
More than thirty years ago

It is for Karen
Who is thinking, maybe
Of writing to her father

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Pit Stops

Nothing in life
Needs to move too too quickly
Even the Formula One
Grand Prix races
Are only once a fortnight
So the cars could, in fact
Go much more slowly

I did walk
To the farm shop, and back
Thinking of a few poems
Along the footpaths and the tracks
But I did not settle for long
And that impatience
Tinges the corners of these words

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Tobacco Road

Thirteen years ago
I smoked a pack of Camel Light
Almost every day; they were
My defence mechanism

Nowadays I write poems
With about the same frequency
And, or so I begin to believe
For much the same purpose

They prevent intrusion
They facilitate introduction
Could have been the death of me
Could be the death of me

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Deep South

The father, after a little persuasion
Bought his son, the waiter
A latte coffee to drink outside

Meanwhile the American guy
Buys another shot of expresso
And sits down beside me

We talk of money
Doctors, and lawyers, o yes
And we talk about boxers

All of these types you see
Have to have a ruthless streak
They are not always to be trusted

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Time Out

Today I walk the same path
I see flowers in the verges
I see sheep’s wool on the fences
I walk faster than yesterday
For now I know where I am going

Because of my increased pace
I have longer to pause; to look
At the butterflies more closely
Such as the one of plain colour

A mousy-brown, yes perhaps
A field mouse, without any
Of those crazy orange patterns

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