The child in the man
Learnt behaviour
Earned
Without the need to cram
Always to believe
You are the one who can
Relieved
Of doubt you stand
By the side
Of the younger man
With enthusiasm
For rigor mortis
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
The child in the man
Learnt behaviour
Earned
Without the need to cram
Always to believe
You are the one who can
Relieved
Of doubt you stand
By the side
Of the younger man
With enthusiasm
For rigor mortis
I can take pleasure in the walking, imagine myself easily as a Flaneur, either when window shopping, museum browsing, or in the park, beside the ducks on settled water.
Absentmindedly I forgot to observe the bicycles, or the traffic-lights. My momentary imperious privilege was to wander freely, with good posture and deportment; yes always in the finest shoes.
Yet also in the city I am able to fine-tune my movement; I nip, and tuck, and skip with the certainty of a mind and body, synchronised by the good food, the fresh air, and the most healthy outlook.
Woken by the chatter
A slit to the window
Spoken words natter
Spilt from one to one
Park and city
Field of countryside
Names and faces
Lifelines to collide
Beauty; in the beautiful
Artists and collectors
We are humans, dancers
Open to the answers
With youth, and mature
Immaturity
Of social gatherings
We feel that life is passed on
I can hear the birdsong
This very morning I heard the dawn chorus
I do not know the names of many birds
Yesterday in the park, by the lake
Was it a Kingfisher?
Half hidden, chirping on the branch
Was it a Budgerigar in Richmond Park
I walk happily beside the trees
Talk of them being in and out of leaf
Although to tell the Silver Birch
From the Aspen don’t ask me
Nor to name all the species in the hedgerow
In the shoe shop; leather, bonded to the
diamond effect skin of a stingray
In the chemist's museum, a remnant from the
Great Barrier Reef, both explained after we
asked the simple question; what is it
We had a choice of twenty-seven beers
After no more than a few samples
We found one to our liking
Then passed on its name, to those friendly folk
From Ireland and Australia
Found, yet lost
Doing what has to be done
All the while
Contemplating the escape
Borrowed spaces
Transitory objects for ritual
Some touch
Of someone to hold on to
Listen
The deeper waves call
Open up
The routes for change
Walk Jon’s walk
Step
By indeterminate steps
Being also, unassuming