Not always
The sunlight
Dancing on the waves
Not always
The butterfly
On the drift of the breeze
But today
Although not starting well
Is picking up
I have this place to sit
I have this window to look out of
I have this pen with which to write
Not always
The hurt
Dips into the void
Not always
The cruelty
Is left alone
I am losing you
I believe that is
More or less
What you would have wanted
Last week
I returned to Forest Row
There was little or no angst
Left to overturn
Instead
Five days of continuous sun
Meditations
With the Community of Interbeing
I heard
Other people’s stories
How lucky then
Have we been
One teacher
Told her story
Of losing
Her unborn child...
A morning for organisation - of sorts
Updates to the weekly planner
Recognising those things which I do do
Acknowledging those things which clearly I don’t
Making the necessary promises to myself
I am supposed to be compiling a database
From the year dot to the year whenever
But as an integral part of the process
I foolishly determined to rewrite
All of the poems, yes, every last one
In a way that is how this book started; I was intensely
Frustrated by the years before two-thousand and five
My records where at best spasmodic, at worst absent
So, if I was going to be rewriting the old poems
Then why not simply start anew, with fresh words
Of course, as often happens, the plot thickens
So now I write of the events of 2004 but in 2018
Yet I also include words from reference sources
Which I have to tell you, I had not thought to access
Back in the day so to speak
But right here, right now, I can’t help myself
For as much as the vulva nostalgia works for me
I am also attracted by the world of psychology
The psychoanalysis of what goes on
In this fruitful little mind of mine
The hotel is now a private house
Which is perhaps not a bad thing
For truth to tell it was not a great place
Although it did have direct access
To the beach, to the rock pools
Where the children went to discover
What the adults had already thought ok
This not being a Barrier Reef resort
Or a white beach, as may be found in Belize
Then what of the inhabitants of the property
Who have apparently spent 10 million pounds
On the modernist, minimalist conversion
Would they not be better advised
To have ten-thousand trips to the Maldives
Why do we return, what are we in search of
Especially if the memories are not of altogether good times
Yes, I know there was the day out to Samarès Manor
Which gave the opportunity for sublime photographs
Followed by lunch in their exquisite gardens
Of course I do also remember the midnight play
Where we shared Shakespeare’s sensitive excitements
This morning I shaved my pubic hair
For tomorrow I have to go for a scan
I had no choice but to remember...
But it was only the once, wasn’t it
Our wanton days left way behind
Our carefree bathroom adventures
Not now to be repeated
Not now to stoke your mind
I am taken to Helen Dunmore’s poem
Wild Strawberries; in my heart
And in my soul I hold onto that sense
Of things just beyond, life just out of reach
I did nick two bits of skin
With my inexpensive electric razor
I didn’t bother with plaster, but
I did splash on the after shave
I don’t recall what we did, back in the day
Or what we might have done
Had the bathroom revamp been completed
Hi-ho, once more caught out by the plumbing
