Trust anything but time

Pastel colours, quiet refrains

Hands still, on the chiming clock

Whisper, in case I hear myself

Looking behind the picture frames

Dust is a relief of many years standing

Unplugged from the upright room light

Unmoved from your mother's generation

Flock wallpaper is still though the memory

Even of just and only the place

Billericay Close or Quebec Narrows

All I ask is contemplation

About and around

A race of which I'm out

All I ask is elevation

About to

Surround myself

Unable to be without

Pastels, flocks and dust

Trust the background music, the mood

They create, that is Richie Havens and Arlo Guthrie

Paisley patterns of young men in bare feet

Pylons and stanchions, mill floors ransomed

Derelict cotton works

West wind blown cotton fields

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Searching; feeling, essence, evocation

In your room I am ironing

I feel pretty good about myself

I feel that goodness usually reserved

Or given a fairly lofty price tag

Much the same when you return

From your dutiful day at work

While all the while I toyed

With some unlikely protestation

Then we sit on the three seater

Share the newspapers, I am leaning in

I feel pretty good about you yourself

We did kiss but that was somewhat earlier

The iron is still

Something else is steaming

Outside you cut the grass

You mow the lawn

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Beyond the easily forgotten

Sentimental, awash with nostalgia

Do you remember, or are you scared

Think on; only of or from the past

No ideas here, for an unknown future

Even Nineteen-Eighty-Four is way back

There now a place no more than a wilderness

The easy rider’s have smoked their last cheroot

Today is it then only a reflection

But what of tomorrow; to walk naked

Down the high street, or some other form

Of soul baring, or extravagant expression

Rose petals in gardens falling, more or less to be

See, with our own eyes wide open

Close them only

For ourselves to dream

There to intensify our own, fresher thoughts

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Turn away from the return

You escaped to this piece of England

Determination your sensitised drivers key

Something snapped, one final long silence too far

Magazine article, missions two hundred miles apart

So you are going, or even may have gone

Purposeful with direction and organisation

Any; or another way of life, to give back a life

To the vibrant youth; no more to carry the still

Misplaced child, found in a house lost of all love

Once, twice, but never they say ever a third time

Sound of fortune cards pulled slowly from the pack

Words taken, considered, photographed in a smile

Shall we go home now

Our first song, our first date

So soon together

Determined as one, in our purpose and in our key

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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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