I thought the modern word sat uncomfortable
Among the older established form
Though precisely right in the context of the story
But not the word of a painter, or a lover, or one
Whose sadness waits uniquely upon the shoulder
In this minimalist gallery, where all we see is light
I think of that word postscript, which here and now
Does hold some familiar beauty
Was it just that I had to say something
Or did the place faintly name the feeling
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The thinnest sky, clear of all except trails of our own exhaust. No cover for the moon or the stars or the cold night, and the morning frost which will surely follow.
The simplest words, clear of all inference except of their actual one and only truth; love, life, danger, death.
The barest fields; clear of all except the turned over turfs. No cover for the fox, the hare, the weasel or the shrew, neither for the birds or the scavengers which will surely follow
The simplest words; clear to all, in appearance, in sound; even if not actually always apparent in their meaning.
The morning came as we knew it would, with a white silver covering to the grass, the leaves, the rooftops, and the stubble; all at the mercy of the sun, which will surely follow.
To read every package on a supermarket shelf
Or write a dialogue of the architecture in every city
Or in every place you ever walked or talked
Bombarded with information
Adrift with all the books you ever read
Endlessly more which you have not yet discovered
All of this for you to capture
To cook alongside your banana cake
And then; to you and yours to decimate
To collate and re-deliver onwards
You know, to the count
Of infinity plus one
Distil into that perfect song
Or even the seven syllable line
Somewhere in the middle
Eluding to that elusive presence
Which you handed to me on a plate
Along with your symbolic representation
For now I'll just say that it is nice
To have met you, and to have let you know
That already you have made a difference
Silver sky in my morning
Ball of fire through the clouds
You cast long shadows on my paper
The pencils chrome reflects into a circle
Of varying circumference and depth of field
The paper is not yet penetrated by your light
Or my words; your cloud covered stillness
Is, as someone said yesterday, of heroin
A sheet, a bed cover, a safety or a comfort
Is that so for you, as now you disappear
Drawn down, hidden by our looking
Doubtful as to your persona
Thought lost in your own possession
Of the place we cannot reach or touch
Books on the bookshelves
Left to right
Tallest to smallest
Poetry, self help, reference
Lost, found
Pathways to escape
And the Beatles Anthology
The biggest book
By quite a way
Krishna's Dialogue On
The Soul is minute
In comparison
Oh and Jonathon Livingston Seagull
Crashing into cliffs
Next to Wendy Cope
So
Well then tomorrow
We will go
And buy that DIY
Bookshelf
Left to right
Youngest to oldest
Cold War
Next to Cold Comfort Farm