Preamble

Preamble

The bramble is in bloom

The yellow gorse there’s yards of it, absolutely yards of it

The rain speckled rambler

Walks smiling through

This pathway followed by the monks of old

Today’s story told

Around last centuries newest abbey

Amongst the twisted vines, abreast the lavender

In the bookshop reading of retreats

Buying Aristotle's thoughts on happiness

The gentle people congregate

Smiling eyes, soft spoken voices

Back on the moors

Back among magnificent vistas

A thousand years of footsteps

A million miles of thoughts

The beauty brings alive the eyes, the ears

The traveller thanks his lucky stars

Nature has many more surprises

The river rises in a flash spring spate

Meditation in stained glass surrounds

To a backdrop of glory, of giving

Being your brother's keeper

Contributing for continuation

Sunshine, showers

Photographs of flowers

Reaching peace

Touching love

Being there

Just being

Immersed in adsorption

Feeling alive

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Left to right

You joked about my sloping margins

Though I forget, exactly what you said

They signified, but I will look it up

I will explore the details on google

If you should ever read my notebooks

Including this very one, you will see

That as I go down the page then my

Margins continuously widen

Which signifies: Extroversion, optimism

Enthusiasm, initiative, tendency

To detach from the mother

On the negative side:

Impatience, nervousness; precipitation

To achieve the goals that have been set

Budgets (money matters, time and efforts)

Are exceeded, hard to accomplish

Of course I am happy to tell you

Of the positives; also, quite probably

No, for sure; if all had been negative

This page would not be here

I don’t know, if what you told me

About your significance of margins

Lines up with what I found, but I am

Certain yours would be complementary

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Mark IV GT

Racing off into the solitude

Years before I had learned

To compose poems in the car

Or at least years before I had

Recorded poetry in the car

Whilst I was driving

That solitary metal box

With four doors

Six windows

Square or rectangular

Which, on my eighteenth

Birthday I had kitted out

With hi-fi set ups

Costing just beyond what

I could comfortably afford

For if one is going to be alone

Didn’t one ought, indeed, to have

A top-notch, impressive, sound system

How else might

The sorrowful songs of loneliness

Seep through the silence

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Meavy

Crystal clear spring water

Moss covered trees

Sharp sharp sunlight

Pictures by the stream

A place of respite

A place for solitary escape

Except, every now, every then

Shared by the joy of the boy

But it’s just not true

As some might have you think

That together we did not care

For the moorland brooks or leats

Indeed a part of our

Very Dartmoor beginning

Was beside moonlit fords

With roaming herds of ponies

No wonder then that my magnetic energy draws me

To Sampford Spiney or to Whitchurch Down

The granite, the compass also, they so so attracted me

They so so firmly chose to direct me to places about you

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No. 4

The not so silent house

Is pushed, pulled, from pillar to post

Floorboards extracted

Joists replaced

New tongue and groove timbers installed

Before the conservatory was constructed

Even for a project manager

It takes some working out

How the normality of life

How the minutiae of life

Could have continued

Around such disruption

Dust did indeed beget dust

All of loss lost its way

All of excitement

Became buried or thwarted

By the devastation

By the missed directions

Stillness is as stillness never was

Yet, so I hear, you go on building

Was I the foil, were you in reality, the constructor

Knocking down all that you could

In search of all of which you felt

You nowhere near ever had; not ever

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