White light, clear evening

Always forwards with preparation

Except this time to give chance its chance

Unexpected, the floodlit clock tower

The touch of hand on hand

In such a rush to build a past

To look forwards with the thought of looking

For flashbacks in the future, to have a view of a memory of now

How; wait, spare this moment from the cobwebs

Feel skin pressed hard against skin

Teeth bite hard into necks and into softer navels

Bodies clenched tight

In fear of misunderstanding we risk all

But do not call it desperation

Fall instead towards, or into deeper love

Tall towers, careful hands, warm breezes

Admire the ever longer, ever lighter views

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Bounded

Even asleep the heat overwhelms

To wake with perspired skin

Here then still the prisoner

On the final journey

A courtesan about to fly

A writer to hold the broken lead

One last time

Outdoors it is marginally cooler

The draught floats through the open door

Into the courtyard, into the library

Across the road from Grand Central Station

Back along

In bars and sherbet fountains

We were glad, expectant in high summer

Mad with excitement, pretty dresses

Long, long legs, friendship and gaiety all around

Surrounded; life closed in on all sides, leaves fell

Thank heavens for seasons, a reason for last winter

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Grasp

So soft and still the irony

Times pasture’s thrill I mean

Rosebuds then my tulips

Corn on the cusp, on the turn from green

Youth was never ever lasting

Passed there in between

Here and now and casting

For the love I need to seem

The hay loft and the stream

Stickleback, fox and trout

Hopefully then I duly dream

Quiet, quintessentially without

The shout of silent

Understanding or understatement

That no one knows

Just the thing I mean

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Not even frustrated

The downbeat town

Otherwise known as Beirut

The cap and gown frowned

Otherwise known as shoot on sight

Noise, a racket or unjust interference

The down of depression is killingly real

Deadbeats, downers, druggies

Half life’s of those even less hopeful

This needs a bigger question

In need of a bigger picture

Way wiser than local government

It is inexplicable

To the ordinary man

Caught here among its midst

I though don’t even feel it

No chance that I can say it

No way for me

To contribute to change

This is not a poem

It’s not even coherent

What or why is all that is left

Undone, hopeless

Nothing

Out of however many

You wish the score to be

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Dialects

Afternoon

In East England

Lincolnshire, or some other

Back water

Out in deep and quiet country

A farmyard

A pasture, or some other

Roadside stable

Old patient

Younger nurse

A driver without distinction

Or any other clues due

Except that they were in college

At Oxford or somewhere other

They spoke so so very well

And often together

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