Observation (Without Predilection)

I was moved, when my son told me of his feelings, of that night when he and his girlfriend had to walk the streets of London.

He explained how he had observed, with a keen eye might I add, the behaviour of the homeless, in the early morning coffee houses, around Victoria Station.

He talked of individuals using the wall sockets to re-charge the cheapest of mobile phones, of young women putting on their make-me-fabulous-make-up, with the aid of the reflective window glass.

And of others, moving the previous patrons discarded cups, to then be placed in front of themselves, so as also to be considered as patrons.

He was surprised, but particularly recognised their youth, and their hopelessness, for as he rightly says:

Out in the countryside one could satisfy one's basic needs, by engaging with nature; by building a shelter from branches, and twigs, and leaves, and moss; by washing, and drinking in the streams; one might even be able to swim in some places.

But in the city none of that is possible, and so, for the few hours of that one evening, he felt; no, sorry, they felt, even together they felt, the real fear of becoming destitute.

And he asked himself; why do the young people flock to the city, surely not, not as that young man, who had to pull his jumper over his face to sleep.

Surely not to be here, alone, in one of these, some might say bleak, early morning coffee bars.

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Soup (Without Predetermination)

I lifted the latch on the church door, then pushed open the imposing piece of timber.

Come in, shouted the voice, but close the door behind you, keep the heat in.

I did enter, and I did smell the soup, which the two workmen, sat at a cloth-covered card-table by the altar, were pouring into bowls, from their flasks.

I thought to take a photograph, but chose against that, largely for privacy's sake.

I thought to talk to them, but decided not to, for they were already in full flow.

Instead I determined, to try and remember what a good moment this was, which I had been so so fortunate to witness.

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Vertigo (Without Resolution)

Lighthouse, and vertigo
Radar-ball, and vertigo
Coastal-path, and vertigo
You get to the point
Hartland Point, and vertigo

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Frills (Without Embraces)

It would be wrong of me not to arrest the images of you, scantily clad, in the shortest of frilly skirts; you bring me close to you, I am unable to stop the thought processes; for miles and miles I am thus absorbed.

I even begin to wonder if I will ever be able to shake off these thoughts; what if they were always to stay with me, my eyes feel heavy, my head feels heady.

I am driving towards you, albeit, in my own version of the truth, I am driving for a quite different purpose; hours go by before I reach anywhere near your vicinity.

The sadness is scattered to the moorland, the hurt lies on the riverbed, the immense fear, for isn't it the greatest of fears, to be fearful of oneself, is inculcated into the baron landscape.

I walk the dark streets, too dark for my camera to develop the warm glow (to the naked eye) of the church clock.

As I pass the bus station I make up a story, about my B&B being just behind here, behind this very place, where three times every hour the buses will arrive.

To carry out their complicated, and seriously noisy, and intrinsically disturbing, reversing manoeuvres, before they accelerate, with loud aggression.

To depart, on their way to who knows where; the buses are empty now, and I expect that will also be the case, many hours later

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Trepidation (Without Gratification)

Quite the opposite to Emptiness Dancing
Brought on, in part, by today's destination
And last night's early disruptive dream
Neither of which I desire to expand upon
Except to say that relationships
And their dissolution, played significant parts

Not at all the synthesis
Of the sunlight, and the leaf, and the raindrop
As enveloped
On that quiet Sunday morning in the countryside

Nor as felt
On that slow drive, along narrow, puddled lanes
With hedgerows guarding the ploughed fields
With trees sprinkling, not interfering, with the view

Quite the opposite to the moorlands
With their exposed outcrops of rock
Where the blue, serially activates the doubt within

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