First Light Fluorescent Fascinations

Earlier today
I read of a mother
Who is a recovering alcoholic

She tells a moving unpredictable story
Of being in a happy family environment
Back with her children and their father

We never went so far, I never had the sense, so far
Yes tipsy, yes drunk on one or two occasions
But never consumed, never consumed by the drink

Nor by the drugs; only really consumed by the life
The life of the love, the love of the life
The bright blue sky that's rising on the horizon

Only consumed, consumed by the love
The love of the being in love
And the being in love with the life

The Icelandic singer said his lyrics were just riffraff
Cut up taffeta, to help him make music
And make music he did

Then, wishing for the lyrics to have some meaning
He handed them over to his father
An Icelandic poet

His father penned some sensitive and enquiring words
Yet they were in Icelandic
Which seriously limited their exposure

The young singer from Iceland hooked up with John Grant
An American, or Canadian, singer-songwriter
Now exiled in the North

He also, so I read somewhere
Had problems with drink and drugs, anyway
He translated the youngsters Icelandic lyrics into English

The resulting album became an international success
For a twenty-three year old boy
From a small village in Iceland

Wow, that last tree was orange, brilliant orange
A real contrast
To those immensely fluorescent greens

O
And there's some darker stuff too
There's always some darker stuff somewhere

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Vales And Valour

All manner of voices
Even my own from time to time
In this my life rejoices
Even with the slow and sadder line

Climbing the hills at Dunchideock
Racing on the waters of Loch Lomond
Picking out your picture, on the face of rock
Listening to the meadow boys gone roaming
Set in Garamond, the words of Blonde on Blonde

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Start The Week

I need a week
To write up the memories
I need to seek

The meaning of his dream
What did he seem
As he told of the flood waters

The sun is breaking through
From the East
I think of you, leaving the South

Coming home, to be together
We had a good weekend, but yes
You would have made it better

Sun on the mid-morning motorway
Sun on the hillside road to Corte-Real
Sun, and our Portuguese love affair

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Weekend Guests

We are intertwined I remind myself
Your mind, my body
My body, your kindness

The hedgerow brambles are yellow
And orange
Dark red, light green

The berries are bright, bright
Crimson
Gorgeous as the seldom seen

I once bought the book Trees and Shrubs
Yet, as with most things
I didn't study it thoroughly

Therefore this morning
I look on the lime green leaves
Flayed out, small, petit, perfect and welcome

Yet I cannot give them a name
Just as certain that I cannot give you a name
Other than your name, my love

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Elsewhere

The grey light is slowly lifting
The dull trees, they were hard to fake
Your absence, as the mist about to break
To break me, to make me of nothing

Trees dotted about the hillside
Crows out on the road, picking at the roadkill
Eddie Reader sings of Macushla (My darling)
You my love are elsewhere, in Rickmanswowrth

Between the windmill and the plough
Between the nighttime and the now
Forsworn and forsaken
What is taken is taken
What is lost is lost
It's magic is moved, somehow at cost

I have no thoughts of mink
Nor of the sweeping swallows
I fear for a life that turns to indistinct
Nowhere to go, no one who follows
I fear, for a vine halfway to the brink
Feel for fallow, feel for deeper hollows

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