Beware

Dubois, perhaps of De Beauvoir

Shadows; encounters that play with light

Travellers of the world unite as fragments

In the underground concrete departments

Be aware

Meet my friend; he is the one with the knife

Who desires, due to the affair with his wife

To end your life

Sad to have descended

The evening's gaiety upended

Anger lies beside the selfless bonds of consolation

As we delve into your darker nation

Ambient explanations to still the ruffled mind

Silent conversations to view the uneasy interior

Hazily ordained deportations cram the adventurer

Less plain

The particular exploitations to hustle

The all alone, after dark street walker

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Lumière

This is a passing visit - just time to catch up

Refreshment for myself; incommunicado

I'll sit awhile, wander about, and listen to the music

Think of the fountains, outside in the sunshine

Settle in this cool place, with the voices, with the dust

Settle in this cool place, among your pictures

I will settle with trust

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Blue, blue, blue, blue

Did you feel blue

Before the lightness balanced the depression

Did it come to you

Before its brightness anchored the impression

Blue; of sky, of sea

Of elsewhere on your canvas

Do I feel blue

Before you now, or am I lighter somehow

Do I come to you

Brighter, but still somehow, without anchor

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Ave Maria

The intention is black & white

A sort of meerschaum test for the soul

Yet today I am minded

To use the indivisible blue of my youth

Actually the word is Rorschach; no matter

Rain drops and pink spots of sunlight

Break my momentum, I wait by your side

Feeling your search for invisible truth

Voice of life itself, is in song all around me

Her colours are echoes of your blues

Reminders of your solid blacks and reds

Her lows and highs reflect your dark and light

Music; it is an abstract companion

With that even handed softness of touch

That says 'hello you are welcome'

From daybreak

Through to the deep downfall of night

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Workshops

Whichever way you weigh it, eight ounces is eight ounces

Whether flour or margarine or virgins, light in olive oil

Those blackened disks always come into a balance

That irregular scoop of tin dare not defy

The cast iron weighty scale

But your blue apron, dusty and covered in grease

Reminds me of the smiles

On the day the bread was burnt 

When no amount of kneading would have found the underlying texture

Adding even only the tiniest of ounces would have offset the symmetry

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