Dingy Days

That sunrise, that sunset, those winds across the beaches

That light, that dark, those most forgetful times of mourning

The singer, the songwriter, the lyricist par-excellence 

One night and one day there were many made-up stories

One high-life, one low-life, one crowd of delinquents in between

Then, when the door was opened, when the stairs were climbed

That card, that lighthouse, that must be for Plymouth Sound

That book, that meditation, that oh so so wanting just to be

The sear, the searcher, the one reaching out for all what is

One grain of sand, one boat with paddles, one day doing escape

One ebb tide, one flo tide, one road right alongside the estuary

When the way is open, when the way is closed, still no one passes by

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A Family Affair

I drive beside the moribund silver birch

Sullied by diesel fumes and dirty weather

Yet the November light is not without light

Indeed the blue skies reflect the sparseness

There is a calm to the morning, also to my mind

Yet, by the time I reach the Inn of choice

The Christmas lunches are in full volume flow

I order a pot of tea with sticky toffee pudding

Which arrives in a large bowl swimming with sauce

Heaven knows the sugar content; which would not

Please my partner, or my daughter, or my doctor

Fortunately my son would say enjoy yourself dad

You deserve it

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In The Moving Stillness

Anyway it was a full moon the night when the police closed the M62 motorway between Milnrow in Lancashire, and Huddersfield in Yorkshire.

You know snow is really all embracing in the moonlight, especially when highlighted by the flashing blue sirens of the traffic controllers in pursuit.

The past is the past, is the past, is the past, is the past; meaning that we have a choice of what to remember, what to relive, what to let fade-away.

A new future is what we can think of to create, it is what we may imagine

our positive, compassionate thoughts can propel us towards a new life.

Living in the moment of each moment we can still have one eye on what is good for us, what nourishes our mind and body, what feeds our souls.

What better place to contemplate on such a thing than on the vast open

high-grounds, on the snow engulfed moors and mountains of middle England.

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Painters And Parties

There is a reverence to this work already

For how might one write as Cy Twombly painted

How does one communicate what was hitherto incommunicable

And where would you have me start

Do you wish to see the whole of my introspective life opened up for inspection

Or do you want that I attempt to make a selection of sorts

Perhaps imagine a port and cheese selection as we near seasons greetings

Whereas, in the past, our meetings may not have been altogether convivial

Or at least that is my first stab at any sort of recollection

With little fear of abject correction my mind goes on to detect

A Rochdale party, on a day when snow fell heavily and closed off

All of the cross Pennines roads, such that I truly did have to stay over

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Still Searching

All I know

Is that ground is ground

That travel is travel

Very occasionally

Though not so so often

In my experience

You fall upon a still space

A calm space

Where contemplation may join you

Where stillness

Peacefulness

Settles around you

It may be an open arrangement

A beach, or a sand-dune

Or a pathway to the shoreline

Or a field, maybe even a meadow

A towpath beside the canal

On the way to a mountain

It may have walls

A door, even windows

The roof is optional

We might call it a yard

Or a prayer room

Or perhaps a magnificent temple

It could be transitory

Between here and there

Or on the cusp, if you so prefer

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