I often return
The house
The lane
The road
The esplanade
The sands
The sea
Undressing
My mind
Step by step
Door by door
Doubt by doubt
Into the present
Out of the past
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
I often return
The house
The lane
The road
The esplanade
The sands
The sea
Undressing
My mind
Step by step
Door by door
Doubt by doubt
Into the present
Out of the past
The body aches
Yet it is the red light
Which stops the motion
In this time
Of deep fakes
I feel authentic
Out we go
With the horses
For all our sakes
If and only if
After visiting
Those places
Once again
From childhood
From vacations
From joyful times
And contemplations
She lifted
We raised together
However
She travelled further
I twisted
We turned forever
Nevertheless
I tried always to impress
Last summer
The conifer had to go
Its very presence
Was affecting the growth
Of a much prettier tree
Why oh why
Where they ever placed
So close together
Now I notice
In January
That the pretty tree
Itself has been trimmed
Several times before
Why oh why
Did they have to fight
For the same space