Alice has already told you this story before
But she cannot be here this morning
So if I might
I will make my own recollection
Of thrusting torrents battering
The buttress pillars of the bridge
Raging and racing waters, tearing their way
Tumultuous and tremulous down to the sea
It is December after all
With silver grey skies miles above the moor
A single guest in the quiet guest house
Alice could not be here not today
So let us with our memories press on
Floppy felt hats
Piccolo playing buskers
A remoteness which only comes
From a severe indulgence
With drugs
Two rivers meet
Cutting through the valleys
Awash with an urgency which only comes
From a perceived deliverance
Of the winter
The monks strode
Out from the monastery
For incantations on the moor
Odd to think of people
Who might have passed away
Of faces and personalities
That made you laugh
Who you may never see again
Sash windows, single glazed
Retold stories of embezzlement
Over coffee and cigarettes
Red wine with friends and family
This is all so unexpected
I thought I saw your face
A glimpse in the twilight
But it was someone very much younger
Names you don't remember
Faces, lost in the sand
Forgetfulness is its own enclosure
Lets you reach out into deeper space
Small town celebrities
Capstans on the quaysides
One drink too many
At the salubrious café bistro bar
Out of season
They look inwards from afar
Their trees leaves
Now lay still in the wind
The boat yard sings
For the silent temple
Mud flats, changeable weather
Winds that bring water to the eyes
And the landlord who says
The storms are on their way
Not sounding too good is it
Thank heavens for crab sandwiches
For clam chowder, good company
Conviviality and Mulligatawny soup
IPA or hand pulled half-pints
Of Old Speckled Hen, later a glass or two
Of mulled wine, then biscuits with cheese
Afterwards, chocolate segments slowly taken
From the foil wrapped orange blocks
Go on, put up the Christmas lights
