What was to become

I was thirteen I now realise

Forty one years ago

And forty one was the number of my house

Those thirteen years to go

You, you marched on London

Or flew in from the states, via Donegal

Read your poetry from the lectern

In that domed roof, circular celebratory hall

In Bradford of all places

Handing out fallen (or stolen) leaves

Without a hint of Maharaja or Punjab

Or Afghanistan; or even God bless them all

Is it then; for better, or worse

To have travelled to have fought the few

Is it then; for richer, or poor

To have liberated to have brought the new

I was thirteen, forty one years ago

I forget your answers

But I see your hand, undeniably white

In the dark light of the flickering leaf

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Forever changes

A war fought

In a memorial hall

Blood on the pages

Foot off the ball

Angry young men

Girls with viscous hearts

But let me give you an explanation

Set for you a scene

My six string machine gun

With sunlight clouds and evergreens

Talk to me of freedom

Talk now and then of peace to me

Lease the land of my reason

Free me from a past identity

Or any other bollocks

That you think I might

Then forget to get even

Forget to think of right

Forget to fall all over in love

Or worse; forget to hold you by the hand

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Oaks and Birch

You gave out leaves

I talk of lesser things

You turned to grieve

I heard the robin sing

We do this for a purpose

Now though

Always to remember

To surprise your audience

You turn up the heat

I listen; tick-tock, tick-tock

You, in your unsettled seat

Turn off the lights and twist the lock

We do this for a reason

Now and then and always

But we don’t remember do we

Do we still have to wait until the autumn

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Contentment

One last line

A chance to say goodbye

The romance; we stayed together

Only at the final furlong

Did we start to cry

It takes such a toll

Washing flagstones

Wringing sheets; it's

A death step, the kneeling

For the knees

It takes such a toll

Sitting in silence

Flitting in between

The nurses and the carers

Just in case you sneeze

One last line

It comes to us all

Or at any rate

To everyone I ever knew

Now it's my turn

Turn up the radio

Music maestro please

Open the windows

Bring on the clowns

And the comics please

Laughter, always let there be laughter

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As good as it gets

Soft leather, plumped up cotton

Vast chairs of day or night

With cushions

Support for…

Anyhow this is someway to heaven

At rest

Looking at the breeze

Feeling someway secure

On the brink of reason

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For the entrance

To the gypsy fair

With all manner of persuasions

In shadows they flicker on by

Oh me, oh my, how to be

Enslaved to this the naked eye

Behind the eyelids

Somewhere deeper than the smile

The golden mile of pleasure

The treasure trove we buy into

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