Twenty Six

Might I write of you
As I write
Of spring entering summer

Might I write of you
As I observe
The words of Pablo Neruda

Might I think of that place
Beside the apple blossom
Where we might lay together

Might I think of that hut
Which, with a lover’s touch
Could easily be constructed

For no practical reason
But to sit in, to write in
To make love daily

Might the timbers
Give us their sap
Might we thus grow

For no other reason
Than to be nearer to each other
Nearer to love

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Twenty Five

Outside
Sunlight, slight breeze
Green leaves
Evergreen green leaves

Inside
A carpet to lay on
A wall, a door, a window
A book of silence

In transit
My body mass index
My reflexologist massaged feet
My, still-aching, frozen shoulder

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Twenty Four

The blandness
Of the strawberries, of the blueberries
Of the Icelandic style yoghurt
Only the toothache
Brought about any excitement

Yet before this
Fifteen minutes in the hot tub
Then to perspire profusely
Having been taken
Into a warm place

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Twenty Three

Day 1
The first fish of the day
On the line
In the net
Hook carefully removed
Photograph taken
(Of fish held by eldest son)
Fish returned to the water
Ripples on the lake

Day 2
The first fish of the day
On the line
In the net
Hook carefully removed
Photograph taken
(Of fish held by eldest son)
Fish returned to the water
Ripples on the lake

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Twenty Two

He walks on the skyline
He walks on the sea to sand line
He walks on the field line
He walks, he walks

He talks of the past time
He talks of the here and now time
He talks of the future time
He talks and he talks

I have little choice
In the fragility of the silence
If someone comes along
Then someone comes along

If they choose to speak loudly
Then they choose to speak loudly
Yet I myself
I can go about my day quietly

I can sit, I can meditate
Or soak in my morning bath
Or, as right now
I can pen a few lines, simply for myself

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