In your house
You search for a home
Beginning to believe
The jealousies
Perceived or otherwise
In your home
You search for a house
An open door or a window
To allow the light to enter
And the silent abuse to leave
In your mind
You search for a reason
Even an explanation
Which casts yet more blame
In your easily held direction
In your reason
You search for a mind
Even a stillness or a place
That is brought on
By escape, or the unlit shadows
Gentleness, serenity, calm
Love touches with a whisper
Where the door is held open
Tender, night skies of stars
Clear of clouds, whispers land
Softly on unploughed furrows
Ageless; past generations talk
On beauty, of the passage
Of time, which tonight is still
Carriages, along cobbled streets
Past toffee shop windows
Breath blown softly, whispers: forever
You walked ever so slowly, along James Street, in your long, fawn, padded anorak, over your long rubber, or leather, or rubber look wellington style boots. You are not from around here, or have you been here forever.
With your weather worn face, you appear to have walked into unsteady times, the winds though are less now than in your past. The surgery; if that is where you are going, is only a few hundred yards, and now, once again the sun is beginning to shine. I only caught a glimpse of you, so why should I think of Chernobyl, or Bosnia, or Kazakhstan.
And you know, I too am not from these parts, though I feel to settle and sit more easily here than how I imagine it is for you. Are you in exile; are you lost, are you lonely, do my words come too fast? Ok, I will try to slow down, wander about in my cathedral mind, or recall the church with the beggar, in the Kos summer sun; another place where all I did was look.
Tonight we have a new band member; here from India, fresh from her trip to the top of the mountains. Fresh from her affair, of sorts, with the pale complexion and fast hands of the entirely feminine fiddle player.
The boss; he's been ravished and bewitched by her beautiful, brazen, bare faced emblazoned eyes, and her mantra, in four-eight time, interlaced with the bouncing bow of the fiddlers finger strings
The drone of it all is enchanting; Mark said that they played music from Get Carter. He thought it was shot in Doncaster, I thought on South Shields sands or thereabouts.
Yes, you said, that was the main body of it, only two or three scenes in South Yorkshire. Later we walk home, through the familiar passages; in the darkness. That time of year when the moon seems to take longer to turn.
I have been drinking Pale Rider, a beer with a lightness of sight and taste, and with its 5.2% strength it is a particular favourite.
Now the stereo plays I can't give you anything but love, a song from long, long ago by the Mills Brothers. I wonder if, with their bewitching smiles they told anyone of their well-sold intricate, intimate, anything but hidden affair
Up on our own blueberry hill, in the throes
Of Buxton water
You held my hand, laid me down
I told you, of my daughter
There so clear we thought her to have done so well
To have fairly reached; no fear
That time so near, I hear your laughter
The song to be blessed, by one so dear
The early summer streams, cold water falls over
The white, uncovered toes
Beneath a stone-arch bridge, in turned up trousers
Where hardly anyone now goes
With the sunlight flickering through the silver reeds
And the moorland’s distinctive past
Where on that afternoon, before the evening moon
Our love, our love took fast
