Into the grey sky, without a colour for guidance
Or differentiation beyond the lines of convergence
That began in the tiles under my feet
And travelled under the tired toes of the refugee
As he ambled up and down; until the time to go
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Into the grey sky, without a colour for guidance
Or differentiation beyond the lines of convergence
That began in the tiles under my feet
And travelled under the tired toes of the refugee
As he ambled up and down; until the time to go
Angel du Nord
All over the papers
All over the skyline
The Blind Light of confusion
Drips from my brow
That these words
Are the headline story
Is your transient momentous reward
Nine years
Six alone in preparation
Watching the light
Through the seasons
Watching
Cows crossing the Lys
That these words
Caught the tearful story
Is your lasting posthumous reward
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
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
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