Onwards to sprinkled poppies

In the seventh summer

Slip, I dipped out of the trip

To see the pink flamingos

Now my seventeenth number flips

I’m clipped on the strip

Of fair way gringos

In between the innocence and the heartache

What seems the green grass, the second class

Of the mother, the child, the both without a father

In their seven rows

Clips of once wild poppies

Nipped in bud, for the county flower show

Now my seventeen insecurities

Drip into my shattered mind

Rainy days for the sipped sour wine of impurity

In between the hazel and the hedgerow

What seems the pasture, the swift past raptures

Of the other; the wild, the both without the hope

Or rather To be in the seventh seventeenth summer

Somewhere between home and away and eternity

Graveyards, birthplaces; endless timeless journeys

Trips to pink flamingos

Stripped bare the fair play gringo’s

Swathes wave, rave onwards to sprinkled poppies

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Luminous intensity

The sun strikes from high above

Thirty years or more ago

At university or in love

We spoke of Lumens

His law, or the glow 

Of Luminous intensity

Immense then the density

Of the obnoxious teenager

Leaning against the bar

In a daring unfair refrain

A peacock on the prowl

A scowl for all authority

Some things never change

And some things stay the same

Rising in the east

And setting in the west

Concave or convex

The arc between

The sunrise and sunset

Is blessed

Intense then the

Propensity of youth

Now spent, fenced too far

In darings unfair domain

A hippopotamus with a growl

Cheek by jowl to then remain

Some things never change

And some things stay the same

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Churchyards and hilltops

Love and dust

So close they spoke together

If ever you have been

Deep into the quiet country

You know that someone was born here

But you were not there, at the birth

Or even at the death, except

That now you touch the silence

You smell the yew, how do you do that

Be true, to the truth inside of you

Laid down now deep

Yet also here beside you

Earlier the breeze, on the plateau

Of the long grass where the grasses danced

And swayed, played for mother earth’s fair children

Who listened

Called for by the stillness

The starless sky

The orange moon

In the glass filled camera’s eye

The still moon which sent just, justly

Love and dust; so so close that now

They walk forever; together as so so far before

Unexpectedly they come upon

And are afraid of fear, of fright, of sight

At the unopened door

As the dusk turns

Into full on darkness

And the churchyard says

Go silent

Silently

Into the dark darkness of night

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A few days ago

It was before seven when we set off to the sea, but, even before we were lost, we had changed our destination.

A while before we had spoke of going to this place, to listen to the silence, to make love with nature, in nature; with the noise of nothingness, to be there, with peace, with richness all around us.

The festival is a few weeks away, but already the campers have begun to arrive, the half-barrel barbecues burn, over the twigs of beech and hazel.

Unperturbed we climb the stile, with its water tap and its own electric light, we wander off, out among the grasses, you lead on, pulling your clothes gently together.

I take a photograph; of my shadow, of your stature, of the swaying grasses, in the space that is somehow between us.

We wonder at the wondrous landscape, as we lay down with our love beside us; stillness brings the spoken, and unspoken meditation; for which we thank, for which we bless.

And then we rise, just as the moon rose above us; we each take our picture, we each take the moons picture, we hold hands and slowly walk away, away back, slowly onwards, on from this place called heaven.

The moon is full, a few days ago, after our walk through Tennyson country, we had talked of returning to the church in the still of night.

The map book was with many torn out pages, yet still Tetford and Somersby survive, both found on the plotted paper, and by our slow drive with the surest of directions.

We park, by the telephone box, across the road from Lord Tennyson’s birthplace, next door to the castellated, misplaced, fading into decay diversion.

The churchyard gate is open, the Yew are still, we stand together, at the unopened unbolted door; I feel afraid, I also feel your fear.

We enter together, the door we have left open, we hug; our fear is transferred, passed through one, to the other, then onwards into that place where no one ever knows.

After a while we sit in the pews, though I cannot settle; this is your place, this silent beauty suits you, it belongs to you, I stand aside and reflect back upon your stillness.

We walk at almost zero pace, ambling, without haste or urgency to the still parked car, after closing the church door secure behind us.

The moon is full, surrounded and spread with just a shade of orange, just a wisp of cloud.

We drive off, the moths dance in the glare of the headlights, we are heading home; tonight we have entered into the land of magic, tonight we have entered into the land of love

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Gifts and mementoes

The pen says Rossetti

The picture

In my mind, a face

With an engaging smile

A closed door

An open space

Above the floor

Aside in place

A cry for more

Of love to taste

The open door

On Rossetti’s face

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