Different Strokes

Some words cannot be found

Without first being

Or becoming lost

The ground is dry, hard

Parched, thin grass

There are memories here

Yet the barren earth

Does not know how to call for them

There are couples, walking arm in arm

Matching jumpers, matching rucksacks

There are families

Of all ethnicities, of none

Who seem to share high levels of boredom

This is not my place anymore

I have lost my feeling of belonging

On the balcony of the cafe I drink a glass

Of Fontimans, Botanically Brewed

Mandarin and Seville Orange Jigger

I am there among young Japanese folk

And a woman, in a Sgt Peppers velvet jacket

The family of four, at the next table

Talk in pronounced English of last seasons Italian trip

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Listen

I see today’s lost soul

Just as I was that lost soul

Some time before them

I see the scattered feathers

Just as the fox attack

Has left them

I see the water of the lake

Just as that other water

Which my sorrowful soul gazed into

I see grandparents, parents, children

Just as we might have been

But not as we are

I see the light in the deer shelter roof

Just as it was

The last time, and the times previous

I see (feel) that the silence is not here today

Just as I didn’t actually know it was

All of those times in the past

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Embedded

The ice-cream cabin as was

Is now a car park pay-station

Yet, at just on eleven

The cafe is crowded

The terrace is full

So someone, somewhere

Knows something about business

Though the wet chairs

From overnight rain

Catch a few punters out

Did we spend long here

Did we go to the water

I remember a photoshop picture I made

Of your face

Among a tree with a Gormley statue

The sort of thing

Which a child might have been taught

Although for me

The motivation was somewhat different

It was about hanging on

It was about not letting go

It is about hanging on

It is about not letting go

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Overheads

I sit on Alfred’s, the old head gardener’s seat

I wonder what he might have made

Of the mock tree

With the mock apple baubles

I think of your boots

With silver on the heels

I think that even if all that glitters

Is not gold, it is still evocative

One couldn’t quite call it the start of the day

Yet the artificial tree

Between the beech and the horse chestnut

Is what the children shout about

What did you make of the sculpture park

I’m sure I told you about my coming here

After my mother had died

After bombs were dropped on Yugoslavia

I hear the distant aeroplane

I am taken back, to you collecting me

From your airport; you wanting to show off

Your island, just as I wanted to show you mine

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At Table

A dullness to the morning

Heavy in my thirteen-and-a-half stone

Writing in my hotel bedroom

Lost from my place called home

I decide to take cooked breakfast

To try to get back in the zone

It only costs five pounds extra

I have a window of my own

The railway line is fenced off

The stairwell filled with chrome

The silver birch leaves are limp

The television is the usual drone

The waitress is simply joyful

With the croissants, with the scone

The tradesman is way less happy

Apologising, on his mobile phone

These words are out of context

Should they make it to the tome

Would they be better off discarded

Or cut right back, made bare to the bone

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