Jake, please

This is the morning

All of a muddle

All getting ready

To step into puddles

And catch the gravy trains

Down there in London

On the bus

On the tube

Rides in tunnels going nowhere

Trains returning back home again

This is just a little while later

The garden gate swings open

Scented roses, loud and proud

Stand out, without shrouds

In the full view of the meadow

Back here in Lincoln

In the cathedral, feet without shoes

Verses whispered

Songs unsung

Undone by rhythms and blues

This is the coffee time

Scones and jam and cake

Words fall over, words stand by

Jake, please

Rake those fake leaves away

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Rinse

Back still

With the ripple

Of step-down falling water

Restored

To lay over

The endless drone

Of articulated lorries

Whose highway robbery

Is to steal the silence

The quiet

Of lost generations

With ill-fitting clothes

And, shall we say

Creative

Colour combinations

It is a blue grey

Clear cloudy sky day

It has been, ever since morning

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I do believe the artist is on to something

The moving sculpture represents water

The moving water

Asks the water lilies to stand proud

Or is it the occasional sunlight

Through the broken cloud

The breeze lifts

My fine auburn hair

In waves across

My thin framed spectacles

The light lead

Is automatically fed

Into my Rotring

Vorsprung dur technic

Precision writing pencil

I look for words

The draughtsman's kerbs

The straight lines to nowhere

Are long forgotten

Gardeners move hither

Into and out of

The garden centre where they wither

They choose to wilt

In silt that is right out of the sunlight

Anything, or nothing

To avoid the metallic cams and tubular rings

Which at this moment lie still

Defiant under the gaze of the two wishful brothers

The sculpture, now an installation

Springs into life, visually

I do believe that the artist is on to something

But as always

It is the detail which lets him down

The sounds of ill-fitting mechanisations

The grind that grinds you down to ground

The resounding sound

Of ill-fitting mechanisations

The sculpture is now an installation

An installation which goes up and down

But in sympathetic non-symphonic time

The sculpture wears a frown

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On wider fortunes frown

Smile

Eyes of bigger fortunes

Trails blazed

In longer grass

Meanwhile

Cries of doubt are past

Held now steady

Here in working class

Stiles

And cucumber sandwiches

Picnics, pitchers and jeroboams

Of blackcurrant and lemonade

Meanwhile

Survivors of lives which endure

Fair now ready

Where our good times last

Trials

Weights and tribulations

Of bigger nations

In time of famine, or fast

Meanwhile

Those eyes

On wider fortunes frown

In a round and stronger glass

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I love you and I'm not sorry

I love you and I'm not sorry

I'm not sorry for the way I feel

I don't feel sorry for you, I’m in love

And love is the thing that’s real

Whatever happened happened

Whatever is past is past

It's not the you that’s dampened

It's not the you that’s cast

So let's celebrate your ingenuity

Your tears to make us laugh

So let's celebrate also with congruity

Your fears to chase the chaff

I love you and I'm not sorry

I'm not sorry for the way I feel

I don't feel sorry for you, I'm in love

And love is the thing we steal

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