I am not sure
If I should sit
For I am only
Half-way home
But that one tree
On the far horizon
Captivated
My every thought
So I did sit
And gifted
These few words
To all of those
Who are lucky enough
To pass this way
At the very beginning
Of autumn
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 am not sure
If I should sit
For I am only
Half-way home
But that one tree
On the far horizon
Captivated
My every thought
So I did sit
And gifted
These few words
To all of those
Who are lucky enough
To pass this way
At the very beginning
Of autumn
I am in
The Yorkshire Bridge Inn
I have ordered
Homemade Steak & Kidney Pie
And a pint of Farmer’s Blonde
By the local Bradfield Brewery
Actually it will be my second
For I was here an hour ago
But they stop serving food
(Perhaps to give the cook a break)
Between three and four
So I had to turn and turn again
I’ve got a long walk back
To the Bamford Quaker House
Where I am staying, already
I am over six thousand steps
And that’s just with the getting here
Let alone that tricky trek home
We are inquisitive
The human race
Women more than men
Yes I think so
But there again
In case
You had not noticed
I am a man
So there I was
On the footpath
Along the bank
Of Ladybower reservoir
And to my knowledge
But please do correct me
There is no Lord Bower
Other than my old friend John
Who died
Quite possibly of alcohol poisoning
With that I say goodbye
And welcome to my mother
And so we walked
Those narrow, winding
Scilly isles lanes
On that Sunday afternoon
Which was bright
And dull
In equal measure
You could have skipped
Though I don’t suppose
This was a time
For skipping
Almost surreal really
That we walk in peace
As we part, similarly
Am I a working poet
Or a very lazy writer
Am I the one who saw it
Or simply another inscriber
Am I the truth that sends
Or the pretending aristocrat
Who fears all that defends
The status quo in his purple hat
Am I the nearly man
Or one leaning to the left
Am I with the gypsy caravan
Or once more sadly bereft
Am I the artist on tour
Or the working man’s retiree
Am I the epitome of the poor
Or seeker disguised as visionary