Ignored

One of the downside consequences
Of choosing to be aloof
Is that you can quite easily be ignored
Your grateful words may not be read
Or at least not read by many
Also, so very few who choose to respond

The photographs you post of YSP
May not catch another viewers eye
Or at least not spark their imagination
The extracts of your Red Telephone Box book
May not be endorsed
Even if they were read in the first place

Yes, there are consequences
Of standing apart from the crowd
For, out of the mainstream, you may well be ignored
But is it not better to be yourself
To gather your unique thoughts, in your own way
In doing so build up your own inner strength

So say, this is me, yes, here I am
You can take me, or you can leave me
But don't expect me to do just as you do
For if everyone did that
How dull would the world soon become for you
If it was not already dull, because of you, in the first place

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Blue

Blue is such a bloody good colour
It is, isn’t it

When you read about the colour blue
In Rebecca Solnit's book
A Field Guide to Getting Lost
You say to yourself
She is a bloody good writer
Yes, she is, isn’t she

Then, after you have photographed
All of the curators paired up pictures and sculptures
In the Longside Gallery at YSP
You again say to yourself
They have made bloody-good pairings
I should say so, don't you think so

Such that you go outside
Purchase a black Americano
A raspberry sorbet ice-cream
Then you say to yourself
That this is the life
Yes, it bloody well is, isn't it

You sit down, look at the long field of tilled earth
With the sun and the cloud’s shadows
Taking it in turns to sweep towards you
Again you say to yourself
I'm so bloody well glad
That I played truant from work today, aren't I just

So excited you almost forget to mention the breeze
Which zips into your life
Reminds you, how as a teenager you climbed the wall
So you say to yourself
I was bloody lucky
To have been born near here, wasn't I

To go to the Young Farmers dances
On high days, Fridays and summer holidays
Down the road by the triangle at Cawthorne
So again you say to yourself
Isn't it just bloody magic
To have memories to look back on, it is, isn't it

Today singles, couples and families walk up the path
Which you often strode down
Walking here alone, walking from your mother's house
Which makes you think to say to yourself
She was a bloody good mum
She looked really happy in that blue dress, didn't she

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Predetermined

Pray tell me if you will, about the gossamer sheath
In your bedside drawer

It wasn't there by chance was it, held onto
In case some passer-by should pass by

No, did I hear you say, it wasn't
It was placed there for a purpose

In wait for the opportunity to arise
Or indeed for the situation to be developed

Which it did, mostly at my instigation I might add
Although you did play your part, thoroughly

For which I am forever grateful I have to say
Even if I don't always let you know that

It was a conscious decision, which I made on our behalf
The only unknown, for me, was to be the exact timing

I trust that clears things up
Absolves you of any of your insecurities

Which you may have formed or developed
During the intervening twenty-seven years

They can at last, once and for all be laid to rest
I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, all my love x

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Yorkshire

Sat on the real stone steps
Sheltered by the Hawthorne and by the Oak
From the prevailing wind

Or should it be
Sheltered by the Bougainvilleas
From the fragrant breeze

Either way the sun shone
The gardener mowed the grass
With his rather noisy eight-bladed machine

The children
Now, as then, then, as now
Engage with the sculptures

Perhaps see something of themselves
Reflected in the works of art
See something of the future, see something of the past

The visitors, from nearby, from far away
They jostle with a vacation's excitement
Hold hands as they walk down the pathways home

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Excess

As one way to counterbalance your self-congratulation
You had a day of extreme over-indulgence

Beating head
Sweating skin
Severe indigestion
Counteracted by more, yes many more ablutions

Then by chance to find recovery
In the many-fold dreamscapes

Old friends
Old lovers
Obtuse fanciful situations
Exaggerated by more, yes many more awakenings

Yet almost without a pause
A few moments of nostalgic reconstruction

Unsteady in mind
Unsteady in body
More than a touch of anxiety
Differentiated by more, yes much more, absenteeism

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