I send you a letter, I love the time of writing
And then forget
Next day another phrase catches my ear
Though let us not call it an internal rhyme
We talked of the Camera Obscura
A photograph with a thousand points of view
There through the window, out over the valley
One mile, more or less, away from the ford
In summers heat, perspiration brings
The muddled befuddled mind
To slow down, or jump in the pool
With or without question
In the letter I hoped for a reply
Did you
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Leaf on prickly stalk of bramble
Who would not be hurt by your grazing
Or by the loud voice of that bully of a teacher
That show off, full of arrogance and contempt
Willows sway in all those wild winds
Of slaughter
Show your flex to sustain your summer
Give your shape its beauty, fair play freely
Tarmac trodden with heavy boots
Braziers, flames, smoke, aromatic moisture
Laid down over lost pastures, flattened
And trimmed with a massive machine
The freeway, the autobahn
The rhetoric and the rhetorical question
Listen, can you hear the tough guys
Hear them, they are all alone
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Warm silence
Ice-cold beer
Anger and forgiveness
Inadequate without complaint
Mellow, gentle
Distraught with blame
Shadows and suspicions
Unable to find a name
Whispers are cold
Chilled
Sisters of mercy
Awash with fear
Soft sensitive belongings
A quiet
Walk
Before being buried alive
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In between the roof-light rafters
Beneath the flattened lead
Cool air in a regenerative recirculation
Still yet moving, slow air moving slowly
Than the breath of silence
Slower than the breeze
Of the black cloaks breezing
Striding out down the aisle with a purpose
To say all of those old words
That the roof-space freely had you thinking
To read out, shout even, praising other men’s verses
Worse then than to leave you leaving
Without your own meditation
Without your own memories
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White linen suit, frayed fingers in your making
Can you turn me into a poet
Can you take me to Bohemia
How many wages were spilt before being distilled
Before you were ready; integrated
Steadily to be taken off the peg
The past province of aristocracy
Lost city of the intellect
Retailer, wholesaler, packer
Shipper, advertisement executive, also maybe
The marketing manager too; anyone but you then
Who had the time to take the money
For your intricate handiwork; your lyric
Your chorus, your woven weft
Bereft of any of their bluster
Turn instead to the isthmus
Or depart for the black hole
Of singular isolated pain
There we may find only our own fortune
Which may, or may not sustain
If even for a short while
Until tea perhaps, or even up to a late supper
Before eventually we step out
Bled dry for the better dressed
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