The pub is closed, except for the farmers

The thinnest sky, clear of all except trails of our own exhaust. No cover for the moon or the stars or the cold night, and the morning frost which will surely follow.

The simplest words, clear of all inference except of their actual one and only truth; love, life, danger, death.

The barest fields; clear of all except the turned over turfs. No cover for the fox, the hare, the weasel or the shrew, neither for the birds or the scavengers which will surely follow

The simplest words; clear to all, in appearance, in sound; even if not actually always apparent in their meaning.

The morning came as we knew it would, with a white silver covering to the grass, the leaves, the rooftops, and the stubble; all at the mercy of the sun, which will surely follow.

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An uncountable number of observations

To read every package on a supermarket shelf

Or write a dialogue of the architecture in every city

Or in every place you ever walked or talked

Bombarded with information

Adrift with all the books you ever read

Endlessly more which you have not yet discovered

All of this for you to capture

To cook alongside your banana cake

And then; to you and yours to decimate

To collate and re-deliver onwards

You know, to the count

Of infinity plus one

Distil into that perfect song

Or even the seven syllable line

Somewhere in the middle

Eluding to that elusive presence

Which you handed to me on a plate

Along with your symbolic representation

For now I'll just say that it is nice

To have met you, and to have let you know

That already you have made a difference

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Ether and deference

Silver sky in my morning

Ball of fire through the clouds

You cast long shadows on my paper

The pencils chrome reflects into a circle

Of varying circumference and depth of field

The paper is not yet penetrated by your light

Or my words; your cloud covered stillness

Is, as someone said yesterday, of heroin

A sheet, a bed cover, a safety or a comfort

Is that so for you, as now you disappear

Drawn down, hidden by our looking

Doubtful as to your persona

Thought lost in your own possession

Of the place we cannot reach or touch

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A small library

Books on the bookshelves

Left to right

Tallest to smallest

Poetry, self help, reference

Lost, found

Pathways to escape

And the Beatles Anthology

The biggest book

By quite a way

Krishna's Dialogue On

The Soul is minute

In comparison

Oh and Jonathon Livingston Seagull

Crashing into cliffs

Next to Wendy Cope

So

Well then tomorrow

We will go

And buy that DIY

Bookshelf

Left to right

Youngest to oldest

Cold War

Next to Cold Comfort Farm

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Perception

You know, here, in isolated country, under canvas

In the still of night there is no one to be afraid of

No fear outside of our own imagination

Only ghosts of a suicidal farmer and his in bred son

Not so in the city of a thousand and one creations

With psychologists, philosophers

Non-denominational priests

And the next day latter day nun

I feel safe with people around

In any case

What would the thief take from me

My clothes, my hand baggage, my loose change

How succinct

And so obvious

Life could steal my possessions

But not me, nor my dreams

Or my thoughts of the open road

The sparrows in the hedgerow

The robins in the garden, and the hip-hop busker

Going up the coming down escalator as if unseen

Told of old people unable to talk to young people

Policeman, who banned sales of eggs to teenagers

Health and safety; fearful that they will create havoc

Around the time of Halloween

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