The stuff of dreams

You would have enquired further I said

I thought it wrong to trespass, to invade

Someone else's privacy; it was just an excuse

The lack of an adventurous spirit anywhere within

Yet the images are carried with me, the once

Deeply overgrown garden; trimmed back

To the stubble and the bare earth beneath

The ivy and the clematis; once in flower, now clung

From all sides of the cottage and the roof

The window panes and all along the veranda

Where I guess you listened to the radio

Or sat drinking lemonade with your sister

Perhaps share a sandwich, deep in conversation

Awash with plans to build your own writing room

With wicker chairs and potted plants, in the middle

Of the garden, falling to stream and church spire

The original curtains, do they hold all of your stories

Which you no doubt told through endless summers

Early winter mornings, a view out over the frost

Your steaming tea, and double-buttered teacakes

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The movie maker

From dark, to shadow, to light, to sunshine

From nothing, to doubt, to hope, to certainty

Unveiling of my little story

In less than ten minutes

Though by the summer

It could be half an hour

From a muddle, to a mess, to an idea, to fruition

From grey, to black, to blue, to deepest sunset red

I recall the circle

The hero, the villain

The defining moment

And a good number of tests

From autumn, to winter, to spring, to summer

From gold, to white, to green, to heavenly skies of blue

Write about what you know

Remember the words of Yevtushenko

A poet's autobiography is his poetry

Anything else is just a footnote

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It affects everyone you know

We, we had advance warning

Time to press the tuxedo, to chill the martini

Undress the olives, prepare; be ready

To celebrate our winning of the war

The balcony is art deco, as is the radio

And also the gramophone player

We talked, we kissed, we danced, we listened

Gaily to the momentous news from the front

For the fiftieth anniversary

We put the house on the market; we included

All of our belongings and the photographs

Lest we should forget to remember

The swimming pool had its own room

To change in, or to take a telephone call

Perhaps there had been a butler

Or a handyman, or a maid in a pinafore

You cope with all the ups and downs

Of this terrible war; endlessly you question

How could you help, how on earth

Could you make a contribution

And so to the night of the party

To lift everyone's spirits; perhaps you

Will read a poem in your soft thoughtful voice

Wilfred Owen perhaps, or one of his dead mates

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Looking out for each other

Half an Aspirin

If that’s all it takes

To steady the tear

In your eye

I will ask the doctor

For sure I, neither, wish

For anything to happen

At a stroke

Leaving me or you

Without the hope of a pen

Or the laughter

Of again making love

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Fridays on my mind

Halfway through the morning, did I forget to take the tablets? An inventive infusion, rush of blood, unsteady hands in fuzzy hair. Take a cup of coffee, settle, wait for the caffeine to take hold. Sit, in the chair by the fire, read your book: The memoirs of Cocteau.

Of course these are also your thoughts, they are universal ok. He wrote them down, and sat over coffee, with Marcel Proust to consider their merits, before publication; they are though your thoughts, your own unsteady movements captured therein

Time now to return to the task; the letter, the video, the application of the facial mask. Step up from the armchair, to the leather covered, five wheeled, industrial office chair. Then together, press the keys ctrl, alt, delete.

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