From meditation
Through to lunch
With hardly a break
For doing good
Or helping anyone
But myself
Then
And only then
While cooking sausages
I decided to take a photograph
Of the sunlit trees
And the fields, covered in mist
Which means a few steps
Down the garden path
Towards the compost bin
Whose lid had been dislodged
And whose repair
Left lunch rather well done
My tummy
Is beginning to feel like
Your expectant belly
Which
While it has a certain allure
I know is not too too good for me
Nineteen-fifty-three
For a man who likes numbers
It was the year that my brother
And a one time lover were born
Without fear today we take on Shrewsbury
A place where another lover and I
Used to go to the folk festival
One year we were there as stewards
Back to numbers, yesterday my friend
Mailed me a dozen love poems
As though his loving bottle had exploded
Was he always, all, all or nothing
Should I tidy up
Or should I play
Or, for the sake of balance
Should I do a bit of both
Meanwhile I post a photograph
To Instagram, and also
Oh I don’t know what to say
Not quite my ex that’s for certain
Anne, once our next door neighbour
Said that she did not care for the term
Partner, nor lover either actually
Why not just boyfriend or girlfriend
Should I give up trying to tidy up
And while I am at it stop playing
Because I’m tying myself in knots
And maybe you also
Cakes and ale
Both are fine
Though not together
What else
Then to find
That is better apart
For instance
The singing bowl
And the bodhrán
May in the future
Be looked back upon
As soulmates
While the coir rug
Points to the flat
In Kingsbridge
