Accidents Will Happen

Instead of the abbey

A man troubled by drink

And who knows what else

Crashes his motor bike

Almost in front of us

As we walk to the shops

I held back, until told

To ring for an ambulance

You, on the other hand

Rushed to the casualties aid

I failed miserably

With the 999 call

You, on the other hand

Had remained by his side

This man, out joyriding

In his dressing gown

On someone else’s bike

He turned to blasphemy

When more help arrived

Maybe he is addicted

Unable to restrain himself

Perhaps his taste

Was for Buckfast Tonic Wine

Before endangering a suburban street

  

Sketches

The many trees
The river in spate
The few trees
The almost still canal

The footpath to the abbey
Or to the cafeteria
For Americano coffee
And treacle tart with clotted cream

  

Do Does, Don’t Does Not

The dance, this year

Is not a line-dance

Nor a quick-step

And certainly not a waltz

I do not pick up the leaf

To twirl it in the sunlight

I do not read this year’s

Inspirational Book of Days

But I do

Rearrange the bookshelves

Move myself one step closer

To knowing who I am

The walks, this year

Are not meditations

Or pastoral observations

Neither do they go to my writing seat

I do not sit and gaze

Or contemplate a cigarette

As a means, if nothing less

Of beginning a conservation

But I do

Write these few lines

Hold myself together

As a signal to my true faith

 

Take Me There, In Less Time

Such sun on the trees

Such shadows on the page

That such a song lyric I heard

As the Corn Bread Crumbles

More time than ever

To clean the abbey

Less time than ever

To use the abbey for prayer

And the new organ

Not yet through its guarantee

Sounds out with resounding echoes

For all of those who are absent

Might that I remember

How happy I felt

How anxious I felt

How the two were tied together in you

More time than ever then

To play the hipness-hapless mind games

Less time than ever then

To believe that one is destined for prayer

 

Sideways, Straight-On Glances

The window panes

Are covered in water droplets

The fine mist has turned to rain

Smoke, from next doors chimney

Hangs in the air before dispersing

The window panes

They are my notebook

Raindrops are my tea-leaves

A spiritual one will arrive soon

To make a sense of my sense

The mist and smoke

Are my pencil and paper

Intertwined and misaligned

They tear at each other’s

Very being

That both have disappeared

Leaves me endless

some might say pointless

Tomorrow, so I understand

Things are forecast to change