28

Some people are steady, as those beautiful waves, that lap gently to and fro, on the vast expanse of golden sands

There are also those, less steady, who like their music played loud, and thrive on explosions in the sky

Then there are the lucky ones, those free spirited souls who step easily from one path to the other; one day rich with laughter playing hopscotch or marbles, one day reflecting quietly reading their latest book; or else they are to be found, drunk as lords, with friends in the pub, or asleep on the grass verge

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26 & 27

There is a church

With a small spire

It shows a precision

Which its diminutive

Clock face signs off

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One hundred Monday mornings

One hundred photographs along the way

Glimpses of the mood

Captured in that wellspring of emotion

Notes made on the road

More of the Christopher & less of the Kerouac

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25

I have been heavy handed, but

Not in a heavy-handed sort of way

More of having the will to impose my will

On those I thought in need of guidance

Some might say that I was stubborn, yes

In that stubborn-as-hell kind of way

But more I feel as a demonstration

Of my own damned and wretched inflexibility

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24

In this air, which we call our clear air

There floats at least a million dust mites

Yet only for those few moments, with the earth set on its axis

Does the light sparkle through tree and window, there

To show off the fine particles, both levitating and travelling

No worry for the coldness, it seems they are knowing full well

That when the brightness disappears then they too will disappear

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23

What is it that troubles me

No I know I haven't told you

And though I take the time to hold you

We haven't yet managed to second guess

To prevent distress I don't ask that you unfold me

No I know you are happy that I hold you

And rather pleased that no, I do not scold you

Yet perhaps it's time to probe and not just impress

Don't let them fuck you about, it is not compassionate

To be brutal, it is not clever to tear that frail

Paper when what it needs is a firm frame to wrap around

It is a tree which speaks well to me of frailty and indecision

With the precision of bonsai the branches point neither

In the way of the road less travelled, or any other road

It is a different tree, more wilful and wild of nature

With the precociousness of a night-after hairdo, which says

More about a night on then town rather than a night on the tiles

They are the real deal (and I know some people their equal)

I am the faithless pretender (and you know some people my equal)

If you don't want to be alone with me should I be on my own

If you don't want to share thatch and stone with me should I moan

Or just get on and do something about it; my purpose, to roam

I find people, I lose people, I hope one day that it may slow down

available on kindle