In search of beauty
To rediscover self
Before life took
Its impenetrable hold
The photograph
Taken too quickly
A snapshot with
No time to it at all
Tell me; which part of I
Did you not understand
And just how much of
This land is your land
Or my land anyway
It's raining in South Brent
It's raining in South Brent
I wonder if you meant
This line so heaven sent
It's raining in South Brent
It's raining on the moor
The days are damp and dour
Life's landlocked for the poor
It's raining on the moor
It's sunny in the bay
A funny kind of day
We sail the first of May
Bad boys are out to play
It's sunny in the bay
Go back
Unfold the darkness
Open the sunlight
On the Saturday morning bookstore
The sack is emptied of its juices
The rise and fall of troy is left undone
Nuisance sits nearby to nuance
Memory resides alongside mnemonic
Peak experiences sleep
Along the uneven horizons
They rise deep, to peep
At the sorrowful stars
Still somewhat behind you
Here to take a short vacation
With my book: The poetics of space
The helicopter flies low overhead
The camouflaged sound of the Royal Marines
A picture; a print, in the style of Monet,
But pink, is reflected in the window
And in the mirror, and in the screen
Of the ubiquitous institutional television
Later I will arrive where two rivers meet
Where the moorlands waters plunge
Into the fast flowing ravines
Then onwards to the beach, to collect
A few pebbles, a photograph, a memento
Feet tingle, most every other day
Warm in winter, burning up from the inside
Personal global warming, in or out of season
Long term, short term plans cast aside
Treading on streets and pathways
Moorlands, meadows, and motorways
Huddling, against the wind and rain
Shoulders turned down for the first time
Certain of supposition
Neglect of evidence
Unshaken, until the breeze
Lifted the skirts
Of the west wind’s mind
