Middle C

You came to me
Carrying, and sharing
Sure signs of your love

What had I done
What had I said
What words had I hopefully written

You came to me
Reclining, and smiling
True designs of your love

Where had we been
Where had we travelled
Where stood those words in my head

You came to me
Evening, and morning
Time consigned to our love

How had we gathered
How had we learnt
How had my words drawn you in

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Avista B&B

Here to sit
By reflected leaf
There is no rift
I’ve left my key

In time to come
They will arrive
This is their gift
I have my prize

Late afternoon sky
Over old willow tree
For all but thrift
You can rely on me

The breeze does blow
And the boughs do bend
I’ve no desire to shift
Or for this peace to end

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Crass

Everyday realisation

Some do

Some don’t

Some don’t know if they do

Some do know that they don’t

Four categories is sufficient

For those that do

Fore those that don’t

For those that can, or can’t

For those that will, or won’t

You can count them in the supermarket

You can count them on the car boot stall

You can count them at the football ground

Count at the pink champagne, debutantes ball

Even count them sailing, out upon the Sound

You can put yourself among them

Depending on the lightness of your mood

Join in if you are absolutely joyful, stand tall

Connect, even if you are beginning to brood

Or just decide that, yes ‘you are awful’ after all

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Unpackaged

Final day
Penultimate Americano
Warm breeze
Clear, clean, promenade
Soon
A dip in the water

Alive to the voices
Grandparents
With skating bambino’s
Alive to the perfumes
The smiles
Of senses sensually massaged

A stride down the path
Later
Clear of doubts
Fresh in air
Last Americano
Prepared for departure

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Travellers

The aeroplane heads due south
Into a blue sky
Over the sea’s dark-blue horizon

My concentration is disturbed
Another aeroplane takes off
I turn to watch the new departure

When I turn back
The speck of silver
Which I had been following is gone

I repeat this process
Though I will not repeat it
In the poem

Other than to say
That this is the line up of transitory life
It is the path that many follow

One day you may engage
With the specks of silver
As if they speak of your pastimes

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