I walked
I walked within you
I chalked lines on the wall
For those days you were not there
I had hopes
High hopes within you
I could, in truth, not cope
Without you standing there
I saw light
Bright light within you
Yet, out of sight
You scared me by not being there
I had time
Time a plenty with you
Yet time so so slowly passed
With your absence still anywhere but there
Thunder
Right above us
Thunder
Ten miles or more away
Thunder
At the end of summer
Thunder
With slowed down music
Thirty-seven years
Of perpetual motion
Champagne at the ready
Corks popping
For my birthday girl
Also at the ready
White buildings
Clay tiled roofs
Early evening sunsets
Late on in life
In Ibiza
Among our fifteen minutes of fame
Then the rains came
With the lightning
With the thunder-cracks
Huddled in the lobby
Ready to make a run for it
To the distant bedrooms
A riotous crash of thunder
I jumped backwards
From the balconies bannister glass
A silent flash of light
Across the grey-white skies
All the while the rain was relentless
Taking me back to that time
In the hotel in Jamaica
Where the rain was falling like curtains
Drawn down from on high
Gifts, to the mystics, to the ghosts
Who had called natures forces upon us
There is a breeze
Also across the tops of the palm trees
The piano bar music steps, strolls, meanders
Smoothly over the seafood restaurant tables
The water is cold
Not bloody-cold, as in Kos I grant you
But the pool is cold nonetheless
For such a wimp of a man as I
The machine made Americano
Is bitter, not sweet, nor delicate
Fortunately it is only 0.15 litre
So not too too much to drink, or to throw away
There has been rain
I don’t think I told you
It was on the way here
As we walked up the hill
But we pressed on
In the almost certain knowledge
That the sun would shine again
That the good times, they would return
There is a sky-blue sky
With silver framed white clouds
The waiter’s uniforms
Are trimmed with turquoise brocade
Such are the welcomes of lascivious thoughts
As encouraged by the so so skimpy bikinis
Obsessed, as I have become
By the need to be more than overtly sexist
Not though caused by my looseness
As brought on by the Mediterranean vacation
But rather as a defiant response, to the slap-
Down email, from the Arvon course director
Of course no names are mentioned
No specifics given
Of the aforementioned complaint
A masterclass in denial, or deception
There is a sky-blue sky
White clouds heading for the heavens
Yet it is movement without movement
As it is music without music
I don’t expect Satie’s Gymnopédies
Are too too popular here in Sensatori
Neither Clare de Lune either
Not so so early in the day
The blue sky becomes more blue
As the excitement grows
Before the bride-to-be appears
In white veil, tattoos, painted toenails
