Sixty Eight

I lean back on the old seat
Which sits on a small plot of land
Donated by Emerson College
Into a trust for the local community

I am reminded of the song
Houses, houses, houses
Which I think was more about the Downs
But which would also fit, right now, right here

In the middle of the woods
Halfway to the horizon
A thin plume of smoke rises
Perhaps a Papal visit

Though more likely I would say
It is coppice work, the sort of task
Which appears to be happily undertaken
To gift the artist his charcoal, also his fuel

I could write of nettles
Also of the ubiquitous Russian Vine
Or whatever it is known as
In this salubrious part of England

I do have to tell you
Of flies, of wasps
For they are cutting short
My easy contemplation

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Sixty Seven

I think it was the nun to be
Who showed me, for the first time
The opening, the closing
Of the Evening Primrose

Now, at breakfast
It is a red flower
Which takes my gaze; I don’t
Know it’s name, but I will take a photograph

Paul told me of this organic farm
In whose cafe I now sit
It is only ten minutes walk from college
But with big views, of fields, of woods

They serve huge slices
Of broccoli, leek, mushroom, and cheese tart
If they are Cornish Pasties
I may we’ll be back tomorrow

After the tart I take a slab
Of their chocolate brownie
Which I am pretty sure
Will be made with real milk

As will whatever else
These mighty fine Italian chefs do
To expertly turn out
Such delicacies

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Sixty Six

Behind my eyelids
I see the trees
Reds, purples

Sometimes
It is just colours
Other times
I see shapes

A green sphere
Atop a silver grey
Straight, plain, triangular

A thin tall triangle
Turning
To burnt orange
Or golden brown

I meditated tonight
Whilst next door
The clowns performed

We had been invited
But the message
Did not get through soon enough
More’s the pity

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Sixty Five

I told the story
Of my first visit to this place
You know, the underlying reason

I took the blame
Said you had done the right thing
You deserved a life

I did not use your name
But said that without a life
Things must change

I mentioned the young woman
A punk dresser
About to join a closed order

She told me
Vociferously
That I must be creative

I don’t know that this time I helped
Other than that by talking
I might have encouraged others

Those with indelibly raw stories
Still with hurt, still with pain
Seeking some port in which to dock

My recovery began here
And though I was fearful of returning
Sometimes it is good to go back

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Sixty Four

I have many traces of memories
Yet also I find new places
This afternoon I sit on a white chair
Under the apple tree
Behind me, a little way away
There are the beehives
I can hear the bees
I can see a butterfly
I can touch the peeling bark
On the trunk of the tree

Today there are no cobwebs
No silences in the corners
There is dust, as always
Though this is the dust
Of a dry dry summer
There are marker posts
With warning tapes
Highlighting a space
Which I ought not to enter
I will not go there

For I no longer wish to trespass
Now I only want to go
I only want to go where I am wanted
I only want to go where I am loved

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