I sat beside the canal
Outside the museum
Writing in a notebook
Which I had bought
From the art gallery
I do have photographs
Though I do not know where
The notebook is anymore
Nor where are the words
I wrote on that day
Yet for sure
Much as on this day
They would have been longing
For someone
Altogether out of reach
I turn back to the 1st of December
When Compline began with Thomas Tallis
I go there to go back to Buckfast Abbey
Where the visits over many years enriched my life
The generosity and industry of Brother Daniel
Spiritual reflections of Gregorian chant
The pure contemplative peace of the rear chapel
The treacle tart with clotted cream in the refectory
I return from two episodes of Compline
Also after a search for my own spiritual music
Which wasn’t itself too too successful
But did take me to Centerpointe Research
A place, or a programme, used to assist
My meditation practice back in the day
Which of course means a time that I cannot
Pinpoint with any accuracy whatsoever
Other than the disks have stayed with me
They show a copyright of nineteen-ninety-three
As I settle into this minimal entrapment
To listen to the sounds through headphones
What do I hope to achieve through a week
Of Holosync practice; only time will tell
But I will report back, that I do promise
Unless of course I am told to forget everything
There goes the 9:37
From Revesby
Out to the North Sea
There on this blue sky
Cold and frosty morning
Where life is indeed awash
Open the back curtains
Turn off the lights
Be at one with one
You have read the social media
But not yet blamed the news
As you put your day in context
Here you sit
Listening to Radio Three
Talking about the Franco-Flemish composers
Which in all honesty
Means next to nothing to you
Except today it is a mark in the sand
As is the fact
That you promised to tidy your room
Oh but that can happen later, can’t it
Already then a margin
Already then a touch of gold
Already then a kindness
With the nerve of growing old
Already then the chagrin
Already then a letter to say no
Already then a hardness
With the debt of nervous bold
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Or the abstract form
Would you rather find a meaner muse
It was more than a ruse
Yet how did it lose its way
Would you prefer to cruise
Without paying your dues
