The page is blank
An open invitation
To begin the day lightly
With no overriding
Sense of purpose
Other than to enjoy
The beauty of being
The deliberate nature
Of breathing, of smiling
Of writing au revoir
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 page is blank
An open invitation
To begin the day lightly
With no overriding
Sense of purpose
Other than to enjoy
The beauty of being
The deliberate nature
Of breathing, of smiling
Of writing au revoir
I thought to go to Ely
To the stained glass museum
Instead, I stayed in Revesby
To smell the jet aircraft’s perfume
Also to watch the pilots
Coerce the birds from the sky
Flash cars speeding by
Jet aircraft in the sky
If I had a cigarette
Now would be the perfect time
But I don’t
And I haven’t for seventeen years
Although it seems, or appears
To be considerably longer
Instead it is a bar of chocolate
With my diet Coke
And an Americano coffee
With these words that I write
Part of his soul
Will always stay
With the cricket club
Yet my soul
Is not yet fully infused here
With the sound of bat on ball
Of course there was a time
In another place
Of a Saturday afternoon
And maybe, just maybe
I might relive
That most splendid experience
A ball leveraged through mid-off
Onto the seated terrace
Or clouted, over mid-on, into the river
But here the boundaries are land
Land and more land
To all four corners
It feels cold outside
I will wait for the sun
To warm things up
Yes, when the blue sky
Replaces the grey
Then I will venture out
Even if springtime
Is not yet fully with us