BBB Poem 62

I smell the lavender
In the heel repair balm
As I massage after bathing
My mind instantly springs
To you know who
With no call at all
For those way slower
Neural thought processes

I run my fingers over
The roll of decorators lining paper
On the dining table
My mind instantly springs
To my draughtsmanship days
With just a shadow of a sidestep
To the girl, or young woman
In the printing department

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BBB Poem 61

I sit still, and look out of the window
I see the settled stillness of nature
Flowers, and bushes, and trees, and sky
I see layers, and layers
Layers of variegated colours
Yellows, and oranges, and reds, and crimsons
Greys, and greens, and blues, and golds
I see all of this
As I watch a television arts programme
About Still Life
And I remember my own book
Branch Lines To The Silent
I recall its passage
To it becoming a physical object

I see the settled stillness of nature
And I remember a night of erotic passion
With the vicars daughter
I am reading Doctor Zhivago
I could be the renegade apprentice
I could be the striking railroad worker
I was in those episodes
I did those kinds of things
I lived that life, a little bit out of control
It was the wildness
The wildness before the stillness

I gently unbuttoned
Her see-through blouse, caressed
Her delightful, if somewhat diminutive, breasts
She showed me
How to lubricate a Durex gossamer
We made love
Leaning against, and looking into
Into the open castle window

We made love again, down in the town
Behind the gasometer
In earshot of the dancehall
The flowers, the bushes, the trees
And the sky, all still
I saw layers, and layers
Layers of variegated colours
Purples, and pinks, and rouges, and violets
Whites, and silvers, and rubies, and vermilions

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BBB Poem 60

Black is the colour of the day
Black is the colour of mourning
Slow is the long walk of the day
Slow is the certainty now dormant

Severe, and serene, and in between
The sounds of walking sticks and shuffled feet
Seek out, whatever it is you must seek out
Among these mild, and meek ways, to torment

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BBB Poem 59

The next lot are due
In this well oiled procession
Of folk who have made enough of life
To be worthy of cremation, or burial

It seems to me, though I am no expert
That a graveside affair offers more opportunity
To unhurried contemplation, also to be able
To think of life in the natural cycle of nature

But it is cold outside, even in September
With frosted words; written, read, and spoken
Whereas the crematorium, as you might expect
Is fairly well heated; but warmer words, no

So there you have it
You take your choice, and you get on with it
Spacious cold comfort farm, or packed tight
On uncomfortable, utilitarian, wooden chairs

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BBB Poem 58

That one man
With top hat and stick
What does he think of
As he walks before the hearse
Up the hill to the graveside
If he, as they
Could think of pipes and bands
Joy, on this sunshine day of celebration
And now
As the coffin is lifted from the hearse
To be borne on six men's shoulders
Before being carried down the hill
Towards the graveside patrons
Before being lowered
Down into the grave
The recordings of this
His last scene
Are absent
No photographs, no video
No sounds recorded for future playback
Only solemn memories
Of grey skies
And solemn occasions
Thank heavens for the flowers
And the gaily coloured youths

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