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Thursday, 13 October 2022

Turning Corners, Sunday Mornings

It is a quiet town

For a bright orange

’67 Transporter


Is everything as it really is

Is this the truth that they really represented


It is a slow-driver Sunday

For a gloss black

2010 Transporter


That the presence should wait for me

On the tarmacadam roads of awareness


Have Laura’s green leaves decorated the BA

And could they do the same

For my next year’s transporter


It is a black coffee rest place

For an Italian jacket and a Japanese pencil



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Wednesday, 12 October 2022

Setting Out, Turning Back

One footstep too many

One raindrop for the few

One beech nut tree story

The fell and the root reordered


One old school house standing

One age of time to view

One car driven too quickly

The pace of life in residue


One branch softly swaying

One sunspot to include

One patched up blue sky

The hope is to preview


A seat looking out

Away across the meadow

A treat for sincere sore eyes

After a walk, a path to follow



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Tuesday, 11 October 2022

Play

It wasn’t Rocco

Who complained

About being hit by the wheelbarrow


No, it was someone’s mother

Who asked why

Why would anyone do such a thing


But there and then

With an adult’s intrusion

Rocco’s game was over



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Monday, 10 October 2022

Musing

I don’t honestly know

What my life is about

Not at least, as in the words

Of Story of My heart

By Richard Jefferies


I do (hopefully honestly) know

That to among nature

With a breeze to my back

Is about a good a thing

As one might peacefully imagine


Several layers of green leaves

Before and beneath the blue sky

Stock still grove stones

Telling the forever stories

Of families and societies


There is even room here

For thorns and nettles

For rough cut grass

And overgrown hedges

To keep life contained



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Sunday, 9 October 2022

Always, And Forever

I came upon a love-seat

From the year MM

Here in the graveyard

I sat to look at the yew trees

From the year M


Beside me the shadow

Whose tree bears the pellets

For my peashooter

Back in the day

When boys would be boys


Long before I had set out

In search of silence

Or at least the sort found

By tall, thin grasses

Swaying in the summer breeze


Behind me the canal

And the footpath

Leading to the woods

Where more adventurous sorts

Have built a shelter



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