Steady Does It

Matilda climbed on the rockery

But was told

No, no, no Matilda

Absolutely not

But who gave her the name

In the first place

Sat, on the promenade

At Grange-Over-Sands

On the last Saturday in August

In this, the year of the pandemic

Opposite the telescope

Which looks out over Morecambe Bay

Children race each other

On their push-along scooters

The girl says that she is the winner

Are all girls, and boys, competitive

Kate has gone to the café

For coffees and vanilla ice creams

The proprietor says that they do all kinds

Including cappuccino, yes, he did say that

Patches of blue sky, ever so slightly

As Pink Floyd might have said:

Obscured by Clouds

Maybe they had played here

Back in the day, in August

 

Reclaimed From Rhyme

Clouds, in quite a hurry

To cross the once blue, blue sky

Thoughts of how I have disrupted

Oh so so many lives

Would that I could be seized

With no need to go anywhere at all

Would that I should be rooted

To a place so so calm as this

That we might all travel less

For less is more, is more, is more

No need then for second stops

Or even to worry as to the final result

What once was grand

Was, for sure, for sure let go

Decayed to the loosest straw

Solutions offered by the high and brazen

Rhododendrons were the latest thing

And for tall trees seeking light

A grandstand then was often built

Or a platform, for revellers simply to be

Dilapidation comes to mind

A certain requirement for a lick of paint

The past is past, but, we did all play our part

Except for the mother, who really was a martyr

  

  

Incontrovertible

It matters not

What you leave behind

Nor if your partner looks sideways

While you look forwards

No amount of wealth it seems

Can make a man, or his possessions, immortal

For he, and they, will surely

Be impoverished by the passages of time

All day long

I ought to carry this thought with me

Nothing should become too too precious

That it may not be written of by me

Currently closed

The chapel and the restaurant

Also the fishing pegs by the lakes

Otherwise, open for admission (tickets only)

The quiet stone

Stands beside the old wooden door

Where the threshold is much underused

The latest change is 1995

Smell the grass, freshly mown

See the heather, and the Acer

Take in the splendour

And think of how life might have been

  

Treasures

So far away

A minute stick of a figure

At the water’s edge

In his own world

Yet now, also

In my world

Trouble, as they say, sets out

At the double

To disturb his peace

More-so, the cloud cover

Has changed the waters colours

Caught the shadows on the hop

The white windmills

For now they are all white

Their greys having been despatched

By the twirling blades

He doesn’t move at the double

Troubles himself instead, to focus

On that extremely fine line

Where land meets sea

Where new light travels

Along the East Coast continuum

From the Wash to the Humber

From the gifts of the gifted, to those as given

  

  

Here As Elsewhere

The seed heads

Of the dry grasses

Crumble

In my fingers

Spreading their futures

Into the marshes

Eventually, most likely

Out towards the horizon

Where, one hopes

That sky and sea will meet

Or at least share

A place with a view

It could have been

A John Miller

‘Summer Sandbar’ painting

Except this is not Cornwall

Nor is this the Atlantic

Although the light, yes

The light is equally magical

Today I am told

That there are definitely seals

And so the cameras

With significant zoom lenses

Are called into action

To remember the day