Chalky white stone
As if the Cotswolds in Ibiza
A two-and-half metre high wall
With blue sky beyond its boundary
Not an ounce of angst
Not one millimetre of disagreement
Concordance in all directions
How so so very different
We wear new hats now
Actually I have no hat at all
But choose the security of the shade
For my full on self-exposure
Unaware of my contribution
To other’s development
I watch for patterns
In the building’s fabric
He writes of family
Of slaves, of plantations
It is what he knows of
Where his first formative self
Is locked away
I write of lost love
Of lust, of heartbreak
It is what I knew of
Where my later formative self
Was cuffed, was caged
In truth I don’t actually reach him
He does not respond to my change of words
Also, to be truthfully honest
I misinterpreted his first poem
I put way too much of someone other in there
Move to be by the palm tree
With the shadow
Of another palm tree
Waving on the wall
One tree’s shadows
Wave on the floor
As the clouds clear
As the full sun
Penetrates
Those millions of miles
Why then think of tomorrow
Why then think of the next day
Instead be thankful
For the palm tree
Yes, be so so grateful
For this spot of shade
Under the shade
Of the withered, twisted, olive tree
He sips, through a straw
From his ice-bound Mojito
Lime, mint, rum
Not yet noon
Or leastways
Only shortly after
He turns his ear
To the jazz saxophonist
To the sublime
Easy-goes-it, rhythm section
Music, love, life
Not yet
Over, or done with
No, not anyway near
I have a desire to write
As a way to satisfy
The needs, the wants
Of my mind, of my body
That is to release
Or to couple up
The passions, the persuasions
Of pasts, of presents, of futures
This morning I could write
The most mindful of words
With sorrow, with happiness
Shared by the protagonist
With sadness, or darkness
Pushed out
Beyond the periphery
Over the tracks of yesteryears
Any complication, or quarrel
Within my own interior
Would be planed, sanded, smoothed
Then offered by pen, to the paper
