Wet and cold and warm

Frosted crinkled crystals sat upon the five bar gate

Sentry to the streams and turnpikes

Blessed as the very day that we wait

All the while we listen outright, touch the frost atop

The five bars; held together by diagonal slants

Swung on and off the blacksmiths curled hinges

In the stillness, on the stiff crumpled grass

Sparkled sharpness of the dampness frozen

Moments as later breathe air of kingdoms passed

Look closely at your clothes, your skin

All of the outside of within

Think on that fair scented hair shampoo 

And the bath salts

In your early morning hot water soak

Later, in the library or bookshop

Or perhaps the Methodist Tea Rooms

Sit in the happiness of this sunlight

Read these or someone else's words

Dream of pancakes for tea

With treacle and maple syrup

And dollops of vanilla ice cream

Then, even though it's not politically correct

Take a cigarette

Inhale and exhale your love

Puff away, rub your thumbs and fingers

Wipe off the gathered ice

From your well worn shoes

Even without the snow

It's good to go into the mist

Beyond the stream, out into the clearing

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Word

 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 pub is closed, except for the farmers

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.

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An uncountable number of observations

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

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Ether and deference

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

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