Islands, Continents

It was cotton
Cotton on the bog
Halfway across the country
From West Coast to East Coast
Galway to Dublin
Ireland to England

But first a stop-off point
At the art gallery
For a coffee and a cake
Or even a spot of lunch
After taking photographs of the cotton
The cotton on the bog

Years later
Or years earlier
But definitely years apart
Although once
The land had
Continued through

To that place
Or another place
Though today I write
Of that place, the special place
With deserted beaches, with the machair
Where a painter called Volbeda, paints from memory

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Christopher's Website
for his Collected Works

Snap

Tiredness courts despondency
As love favours skipping
Only water from the stream
Will bring the eyes back to life

You might choose
Or may already have chosen
A time or place to lose
Or for the object to be broken

That I co-exist
Is hardly any enhancement
A past unable to resist
What the glance meant

A gleam in the eye
As passing as a smile
All the while and by and by
It was either pure or puerile

Without the dotted page
Where will be the guidance
No more the energy to rage
Simply to slide with subsidence

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for his Collected Works

Actuality

Nowhere is there the freedom
As here in the mind
How much more able to travel
On the wings of a thought

Give free rein unencumbered
To the scope of your imagination
Only to know, that some days
The trees have no leaves

Then to make turns
To visit the dark and the light
Then to share feelings
Of hurt, pain, and joy

No one then to hold you down
As when out on your own
How thankful for stillness
To give you time to think

And if on this day
The thoughts lay dormant
Know that full well
Tomorrow’s sun will be rising

That in her freshness
You will sense clean weather
That in the new day
You will return to your best

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for his Collected Works

L'amour

Sat at his piano
In the Saturday night concert hall
He sang a song
Or rather he cried out
To his greatest love

In those precious few minutes
He was entirely open
Filled with vulnerability
Among the essences of nirvana
He told his greatest love story

To share with me a mirror
As one might reflect in the morning
To find oneself so so utterly close
To find oneself entirely
In the beauty of the knowing

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for his Collected Works

Out Of Reach

The afternoon sunlight
Falls on the red brick building
The afternoon sunlight
Falls on the old glass windows
I am searching for music by Pieters Vasks
Without too much success

The afternoon sunlight
Makes a silhouette of the trees
The afternoon sunlight
Reminds me of all things to the West
It is Violin Symphony No.2 which I seek
With Distant Light; I want the CD version

I had been asleep
The afternoon nap brought about
By the previous night’s fractious sleep
Which I am afraid to say
Is becoming a bit of a habit
C’est la vie

Thanks to my search I read of Finland, Latvia
And the Orchestra of Tasmania
I read of Arvo Pärt and Henryk Górecki
I was shown videos and audio downloads
In high definition and FLAC
Yet it seems the CD is unavailable

Available at Amazon

Christopher's Website
for his Collected Works