Rigour

The square sheep-pen
Made with straight slats of wood
The regular shape, a symbol for good

Into which no one fits comfortably
From where my pencil sets off uncomfortably
To see the turns around the bends

Up and down the Wolds
Freedom spurns the message sent
& still the curvature unfolds

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JD’s

It was your friend who told me, on Christmas Eve

We played football with your brothers, the two of you watched on
I chose you, you chose me, that’s how it often happens
Leadership became us, leaders of the pack
Excitement overcame us, no time to look on back

Look on back, as I do now; are you in a breakfast diner?
Maybe a motel room, on the plastic stack
Excitement overcame us, didn’t it?
Play it again, play that Fleetwood Mac, play that Chicken Shack

Look on back, as I do now, on the truth of procreation
The hearts that break on back
The order in attraction stacked; leadership easily became us, didn’t it?
Say it again; torn clothes, primeval attack; torn clothes, primeval attack

Each day you caught the bus to the catholic schools: Saint Augustine
Saint Gregory, Saint Bartholomew; each day, distraught, off at a tangent
I went, to extravagantly mime the Lords Prayer, in my grammar school
Soon to be comprehensive, where disorder was my fool

We were the tops, the bright spots that had not yet lost their voice
Yet neither had we found our apprehension; no contest then
To be in contention at the youth club discothèque
I was the DJ you were the dancer; no chance or so I thought

Until your second glance brought a smile
I smile again today, today, as I am now
On the road, the long straight road, the free flow of the early morning
As the actor reads, of his five years past from the view of Tintern Abbey

Today, as I am now, are you also? Take time to look on back
That we should have known the joy, played with that tune called love
It was your friend that told me “She really likes you, do you like her”
“Will you go out with her?”

You broke my heart
Broken so much I had to break another

Did you seek forgiveness?
Would my dear, that I could say today
Yes I forgive you

Do I seek forgiveness?
Would it be clearer if I said
Yes, can you forgive me

My broken heart spoke
Woken by the onset of the summer
Woken by the love of another

Did you think again, or were you pressed beyond redemption
Do I think to think again or am I past my previous past pretensions

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Off The Hook

To find the most meagre of excuses, an exhibit of the unsettled
If only I could have found the bunch of keys
The gardening would have been set to, fettled
This is what absence brings
Left to ones own self, with time to ponder, look
Out of the windows, wonder at the silver lined clouds in a soft blue sky
I had forgotten to water the white orchids
Stems proud but leaves fallen

A present to be kept alive at all costs, so you reminded me
I could have looked harder
Turned the house upside down, as we did in search
Of the theatre tickets; we never found them, though that did not stop us
Easier then, to sit in the silent chair
Sit, in ones own surrounds, wallow
Turn words around in ones head
Think of another task, one more inspiration to follow

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This is Darkness Calling

Without those words: Betrayal, deception
Jealousy, anger, bitterness, revenge…
How we tear ourselves apart
Pull at each aching string, tear each sinew

Without the sunrise in the morning
The quiet time in the meadow
The time to think of roses hung above the door
Spring water dancing on our fingertips

This is darkness calling
Stillness of the night, surreptitious overactive minds
Timeless, distanced from reality, jigsaw pieces of unknown absentees
Before the warmth of the duvet, the fall into the calm of imaginary life

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Blown Along

This is the land of straw in the road
Of early morning agricultural movements
Where frosted verges and tumble down fences
Overlook the horse boxes on their way to the races

This is the land where we make our own smoke clouds
In an otherwise clear blue sky; with no through roads
No easements, no public rights of way there is no lack of
Privacy; no room for openness of communication

Sat down among the brambles, by the overgrown gravestones
Sat high above the cornfields, just before the cutting
Sat inside in the public bar, with an eastern European beer
Sat outside, by the hot tub and the Jacuzzi

It might have been different with a full congregation
Each pew overflowing, each farmer with a chapel,
Each diocese with a sense of order, each bell rung
Each and every Sunday; rung vibrantly, with a sense of purpose

It might have been different without the degradation
Without the gradual decline, without the absence, the closure
The movement into the hands of conservation, without the choice
Or the lack of it, without the desire to find alternative solutions

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