Circulation

Grey skies

Raindrops on the windows

But still in youth

The vigour to describe

The shine in every detail

On each separated sphere

Colour in all the lonely droplets

Summer closes slowly, eases itself

Into the darker nights

Of autumn

The fear and fright of new beginnings

Of best laid plans

Resurrected, dusted off and drilled down

Around the turn of the year

Into drifted snow

Under frosted moonlight

Crisp under foot, fresh minds

Clear of untroubled numbers

The free mist hides all the frozen shadows

Step out under the bluest of blue skies

In flight above the clouds

Over star swept mountains

Your signature; the new you

As an aviator, or a pedestrian

Stride into the lush chase of springtime

Ride once more with the Valkyries

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Yorkshire Water, Devon beach

The soft sand settles slow

Underfoot into the footprints

Into the so so many steps

If I’ve shifted the drifts of snow

By the reservoir, there apart

Departed from almost everyone I know

A snowman, with a smile

And a tuft of dry grass hair

Dare I to recreate, to rebuild

If to be lost for a while

Was the cost to be borne

If atop the vast panorama

Dostoevsky’s style was worn

Meanwhile, here in the rain

Past stains remain in my environment

Ingrained, learned, deeper than conviction

Cooler than the gallows

This feel, at one at a distance

A rough touch, the gentleness deserted

Indebted

Unknown now they walk

So so often

Since once again we’ve parted

I would have nestled

The round

And weathered boulder

Slung loose aside my cap

Fastened secure

Hung down or sat upon my shoulder

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A more divisible hue

I slept till noon

Not often that I do

I rolled over, to dream

Of oceans green and blue

In debt to the song of Brigadoon

Now I think of you

I lay here, to daydream

Of sands and seas

Seas of green and blue

We met in my bedroom

A smile, a handshake too

I sat unsteady; ready to lean

On crates of green and blue

We let the talk turn to magic mushrooms

Now and again I think of you

I lay here, to daydream

Of Babylon, of a cut in silk and bees

The bees of green and blue

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It would seem better to stay silent

How

Why

Where

What awfully inappropriate words

The dares of deception they cut my cloth too deep

My mother

Her mother before

I don’t know when they began

The cast iron ranges, ovens by the coal fire

The cares of conception they make my pencil seep

Have you

Do you

Could you care or know

Where these words are heading

What was it, that set them on their way backalong

Tin baths

Hanging rails for the drying

Cast enamel for the baking ovens

The park benches on the loneliest of afternoons

The fares of correction, they fill my pockets deep

My lover

Her lover before

I don’t know when they began

The fast diamond laces, the magic of the gyre

Stares of redemption; only my tears which we weep

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Just before sunrise, down at The Farm

Two days to find you

Two days of scraps of torn up paper

Let me remind you

Even more

If you count the ballads

If you count the songs

Just at the break of day

After a late night gig

You walked the blues enormous

Your shoes they danced the simple jig

Now one step, and then one other

With a glass of beer in hand

It’s what he does best, so says his mother

But fails to understand

It is what he does

How ever many days it takes

The rhythm makes for the uncertainty

The liquor soothes the band

Two ways to remind you

The lays and loves behind you

All with torn up scraps of paper

All who want to hold your hand

Even more if you count the hedgerows

Then the green and promised lands

And the smile you rascal

That smile which you wear so dandy grand

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