Writing Travel

Bolt hole, brick hole

Corrugated chapel

The cries of youth

Starless skies

Deepest river valleys

The dearth of truth

Railways rattle

On into up-country

With weight to pass

Settle the bill

Pay the overdue account

Open your eyes

Step on the gas

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Breakfast for one

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

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Tight skin thin features

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

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Seven Stars or Seven Sisters

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

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Tinkering with the hull

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

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