Open doors, misheard words

You almost entered the room

Your glance, truly you quite caught me

Earlier; and not for the first time

You asked: did I need some space

This word, then

This collection of words

A soliloquy, a pleasance

A submission to somewhere unknown

Walks alone, in only our own passages

Tunnels; churchyards and shipbuilder’s sheds

Here is where you have sent me

You simply handed over the key

I opened the door, this time without fear

The old hinges, the cold steel

I feel no more their reign

Faint their memory, now fairly fading

You

You almost enter the room

I turn

I know now, I turned away too soon

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Unjust; a walk in the park

I eke out a poem

For a future reading

A few moments pleasure

Misleading

A few years hence

Remembered treasure

Butterflies

Feathers in the garden

The first August of the summer

Friends

Who now have travelled

Upwards and onwards

Cleaning out

Clearing out

All of your ghostly cobwebs

Glorious Goodwood

With Frankie Dettori’s Ouija Board

A winner for almost all, and for you

The firmest of firm favourites

To win by just the upturn

Of an upturned nose

On the statue

Did you hear the soldier's

Unfortunate cheer

A few moments before

He'd shouted Delores

As the night’s ways mused on

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Untied

Did I tell you

What was in my mind

I often do that now

I never did before

It's swell

That you brush my back

On the odd occasion

Never done before

Truth to tell

No need to sell

You've sold me now

I was never sold before

My empty shell

Down stairways fell

The open door

Unopened before

Did I tell you, no

So, let me then

Tell you now

I never did before

My love untied

Someway, somehow

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Do I wish to be here anyway

Already today

You have been all around the world

Only to land

Right back here again and writing

Postcards from the Seychelles

Poets and tattooists from New Zealand

Already today you've been

All over the world

Spaces, retreats from places

Empty faces

Traces of characters

To mull and muse upon

This land, your own armchair

Your own clutch pencil

Already today; balloons and garden mowers

In your garden, in your home

Ownership, even of your own thoughts

Are free then of freehold

All around the world

Sat under the tree

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The widest corridors in the world

Both hands

On each others

Bare shoulders

Warm skin

Words

To make me cry

I tell you of my poem

My dream

All possible connections

Whatever

That they mean

Happy times

Hopeful times

Softness

Stipple scented sweet surrender

Eyes that smile

Reflect

The smiled on eyes

We land

A good way before December

Our carrier bags

Outside

In the stillness 

The calmness of the night

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