Ride

The wind blows with gusto

It blusters across the warm garden

If this had been an holiday romance

The loss, or sense of it, would already be upon us

The warm winds of the wet Atlantic

The thrashing storms of Regis seas

Sixpence in the bubble-gum machine

A parachute slow hanging from the citrus tree

In joy we seek out shadows

In sorrow a search for somewhere light

That is why, for us, we ride the roller coaster

That is why we step upon the magic bus

In my deckchair

Beside meadow grass and mistletoe

To read a book of passionate poetry

Rapture; yes, I do remember

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Too good to be true

He plays your already chosen songs

There is though, something uneasy

For you about him

A sully face, an optimistic smile

The darkness which she lightens

If it wasn't for her

There would not be enough of life left

He's ok, you think he's fine and why not

For all we know is the public persona

Stage managed

We are given what we already have

Or what we want to hear

Yet still he takes just too many steps

Ingratiatingly he goes too too far

Only a simple and ordinary man goes lightly

White washing blows outside on the line

Way too much goodness, even to understand

Fragile to walk across that derelict railway crossing

On and on, go on and on

Deep down into the tunnel where the colours drain

From your cheeks; you are still, pretence or real

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Back off

Your intellectuality burns me, turns me off

Then puts a distance

Between me and your poetry

Of course I recognise, I have heard

Of the inferiority complex, and what she can muster

That harbinger and buster of angst unclaimed

Shame they say is thrust

By our child abusing a muse in your cloisters

Did you play that game too

Showing off to the weak and the lonely

Taking advantage, but missing the feeding of you

Snapshots, crackpots abide with the simple few

Hey, I say; get back to where you once belonged

If such a place, should

In your present reality, still exist

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Wild Flowers

In the roof space of silence

And echoed evensong

A place on this morning

Untouched yet reached for

Held up by stone pillars

As for worshipful gatherings

My prayer, my poem

Of a few simple words

Wide lake of sidelights

And shadows grace is falling

Just by being still with you

Together to gather

Sitting on the slat wood

Sitting in the pew

Unset offset imagination

Inactive, attractive so so soon

Do you propagate wild flowers

Poppies, evening primroses

Which close then open

At the same time of sunset

Open through the night

Splashing their perfume

The old peculiars

Of tobacco, and Old Spice

Dominoes, counting games

Maybe one day she might

Except once, when more unable

Tables turned and you edged away

Out uneasily from beneath

Or beyond the stairway of silence

Swift in flight did you not see

The forbearance of the night

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Who to dare you

You

You, who are at this moment reading

You, my lover, my friend

My follower leading

You

In your meditation garden

Or quietly beside

Your forty winks

Who else can you turn to

To whisper in your ear

Who that learns, then goes

Then with stillness appears to re-appear

You

In your sunbathed shelter

Or inside

Your hyacinth haven

You

Who are this moment thinking

You, my mother, my brother

My lifetime’s scent

Who else can you turn to

For always

And forever

Who to dare you to move on

Fold the page

Close the book

Walk into your garden

In reality or imagination

Dare to turn to you

To move you on

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