How?

I have a story that I wish to write

But, I don’t know

If I know how to write it

No, I don’t know

Where my vulnerabilities might take me

Sat Outside

Warm days

Fine grasses

Red-brick houses

Slate roofs

Butterfly

Flying

The length

Of the garden

Friday Through Saturday

In this early morning light

After sharing pleasures of the night

To sojourn with second sight

It seems more than could be my right

Rose petals, falling by the fence

Young love, was there any sense

With passions rising to intense

Was there ever any sitting on the fence

Newark to Kings Cross

All that talk

Of the world coming to an end

Without a speck of common sense

About what we’ve achieved so far

And how much further we can go

To help my cause

Also to shed, or show some optimism

I turn to onbeing.org with Krista Tippett

In conversation with Robert McFarlane

Which I find to be most uplifting

Outside The Hairdressers

A slit, horizontal

Of blue, blue sky

Above the rooftops

Below the passageway ceiling

That view, restricted

Of emptiness, openness

Above this idea of future

Below that idea of past

My steadiness deserts me

I wobble like the smog

His holiness is thus set to be

I turn, as if a damaged knuckle