Monday Morning

The washing basket is empty

Upturned and acting as if a garden table

Mothers over the fence

With their pre-school children

Yard life, in what once was Middle-England

Show them love, show them care

Give them, without condition

These the most prized of possessions:

Conversation, explanation, temptation

A cuddle to follow a cry

Dispassionate words, from far too far a distance

The washing line hangs without life

No breeze to rock the duvet, or its cover

Poppies all flowered, out for the season

Memories west wind blown

To some other part of another England

Show them arrogance, show them fear

Give them, without explanation

These most prized obsessions:

Silence, doubt, nothingness

A final emphatic put down, just before they die

Compassionate words; far away from home, alone

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Without a moment for thought

Move on

Another drink

Another slice of oblivion

Brave enough

To use unkind words

Need to

Hold you

Walk me home alone

Move on

Another relationship

Another false dawn

Craved enough

To grasp at anything

Need to

Told you

I turn to stone

Move on

Paris, Rome

Any other place my own

Waved enough

To smile for some

Need to

Unfold you

I am undone

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Do it now; no, please wait

This is the first time, even only yesterday

You told me of the seed pods

To remind me of the flowers which had been there

Of the compulsion

From a sense of not quite

Ever coming to the mark

Or of never having

Been in love

This is the sunshine, later on the heatwave

No shadow on this side of the endless edge

Anyhow the shade there, it simply does not suit you

Neither the joy

At the turn of the night

Another wasteful Monday

Of never wanting

To waste another moment

This is the favour to wave away

Least somehow, still searching the fear

Of happiness, or something else to be taken away

And what do I offer

Endless words

Unknowing communication

Of even never before

Having known your love

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Four four six four four

Barefoot, across the flags

On to the dry grass, on to the damp grass

The days of the blue skies

Of one long hopeful summer

No need to go in search of anywhere

Anymore to storm

Or float to earth in a pink silk parachute

Which love would call her own

This is my morning

Children in blue on the way to school

Mothers with push chairs yawning

Window cleaners and Spanish guys

Blue jeans, silk pressed shirts

Looks, what the girls would die by

Back home; from the city, the suburb, the roar

Return to the sun, the beach and the bird song

The dusty dry alleyways and juggernauts

Somewhere left, some way far and downalong

Time

To comb my fine auburn hair

Read a magazine, unfair or rare

Far more than ever you could have hoped for

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Why wait until it is too late

Smile

At the sun on your new shirt

At the love with which it was presented

At the sunlight on the golden hair

Where the sleeves end and where words begin

The bare feet, summer in your garden

Mid afternoon, backdrop to the children's voices

Back, stop; think on the gothic and lesbian relations

Unable to say

This is me, my one and only one true love

Lean back

Into dimples and dapples, the slow soft shadows

Over boundaries, beyond cusp of life and dream

Over the waterfall, dry in the drought of summer

Silenced by the lack of water

Quenched without first slaking thirst

The bare feet in the slow flowing stream

Mid afternoon, mid life, mid wife lovers

In between the before and the evergreen

Back, way along, songs of senorita's and sombrero's

Think now; while making ever lasting love

Of all the words which say I loved you

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