It's too long
It's too short
It's too fat
It's too thin
Oh no
I'm sorry
Let's see
Where to begin
The end is quite good
But would it be better
At the start
Yes that’s it, that’s it
Hit them with the punch line
Straight away
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
It's too long
It's too short
It's too fat
It's too thin
Oh no
I'm sorry
Let's see
Where to begin
The end is quite good
But would it be better
At the start
Yes that’s it, that’s it
Hit them with the punch line
Straight away
Distracted, clear of deeper thought
No room for pure investigation
The ancients, the dust, the transference
The capture of the loss of loss
Of the loss of lost itself
In white space, in black space
In skyless skies and blank seas
Without horizons, and yes, landless
Deeper thought
To play with such a thing
A fine place for resurrection
Collect the pebbles and the leaves
There in our minds to create new landscapes
I never thought of it before
How different the sound of the waves
To that transportation which is the river
The endless forward roll
The onrush over boulders and stones
With man made creations for fish to by-pass
Life without time to wait for
A conversation except that
Your friend behind you echoes your every word
Where is your memory; is it in the silt
And the sand of your settled bed
Or is it with birds, fauna, and grazing sheep
Or is it in the visitors, trampling on your every shore
If the wild boar approach
Stand tall, spread yourself
Chant the ignoble incantation
Gas mark number six
The vastness of the valley
You show me your explorations
I am thankful, also peaceful
I admire your honest integrity
Then watch the skies move
Behind the trees
Take a photograph of you
Taking a photograph
Down beside the gushing river
The dizziness of the rivers
East Dart meets West Dart
To become the River Dart
Here, however far
Down the valley side we have fallen
We are still above the sea
Surrounded by books of places
And spaces, and Zen meditation
As the I sometimes forgets to be
For the ears; music, through
The transistor radio; any noise
Is welcomed, to overwhelm
The swirls which rush on to the sea