Did I find a lightness
Did I gift it to you
Did we share the dust motes
In the stream of sun
As for Chepstow racecourse
And those Wild Strawberries
Helen, will I ever feel that
Or have you taken the essence with you
And Simon, yes you Lifted An Arm
Inside and outside the playground
Will I ever reach that
Or have those days passed me by
Derek, to return to my own door
After a time away
Feels no less of love
Than your Love After Love
Thursday 7 June 2018
Wednesday 6 June 2018
Fake Time
Time appears to have slowed down
On this bright winter’s morning
Already I have achieved so much
Yet, just then
Whilst watching the microwave
Seventeen seconds disappeared
As if in one instant
On this bright winter’s morning
Already I have achieved so much
Yet, just then
Whilst watching the microwave
Seventeen seconds disappeared
As if in one instant
Tuesday 5 June 2018
Purposeful, Purpose Filled
It is 6:30 AM
I have been thinking of first lines for hours
I even considered
Retreading some of the old first lines
I made a pot of Birchall tea
Which brewed as I prepared the bacon
Yet what else escaped my gaze
As I lit the wood burner
I recall I once watched a television programme
About an artist; his flat, and his studio
Were in what has become a fashionable
Part of London; with coffee bars & public bars
He etches, with acids; several layers
He is working on a piece called The Outliers
Which are a set of rocks, at the very end
Of this island of ours, he has been there
In the early morning darkness
We watch the artist, who, with some certainty
Lights a fire, prepares his porridge, makes
Coffee on the stove, and smokes a cigarette
I am reminded of the Yorkshire poet
David Whyte, and his friend's rich experience
Whilst preparing for, and walking on the
El camino de Santiago de Compostela
He tells the story with a certainty
Yet he himself has not yet walked that path
But has written a poetry book called Pilgrims
Perhaps sat at his desk, on his landing at home
We are what we are
We do what we do
We go where we go
It is good that these things are connected
It is also good
That there are disconnections
Room for the imagination to step in
Space for the land of make-believe
To take hold
Time for the half-dreams
On the cusps of waking
On the paths of walking
I have been thinking of first lines for hours
I even considered
Retreading some of the old first lines
I made a pot of Birchall tea
Which brewed as I prepared the bacon
Yet what else escaped my gaze
As I lit the wood burner
I recall I once watched a television programme
About an artist; his flat, and his studio
Were in what has become a fashionable
Part of London; with coffee bars & public bars
He etches, with acids; several layers
He is working on a piece called The Outliers
Which are a set of rocks, at the very end
Of this island of ours, he has been there
In the early morning darkness
We watch the artist, who, with some certainty
Lights a fire, prepares his porridge, makes
Coffee on the stove, and smokes a cigarette
I am reminded of the Yorkshire poet
David Whyte, and his friend's rich experience
Whilst preparing for, and walking on the
El camino de Santiago de Compostela
He tells the story with a certainty
Yet he himself has not yet walked that path
But has written a poetry book called Pilgrims
Perhaps sat at his desk, on his landing at home
We are what we are
We do what we do
We go where we go
It is good that these things are connected
It is also good
That there are disconnections
Room for the imagination to step in
Space for the land of make-believe
To take hold
Time for the half-dreams
On the cusps of waking
On the paths of walking
Monday 4 June 2018
Sonics
The song of the sea
Is the song of the train
Is the song of the aeroplane
Is the song of the roadway wagons rolling
Is the song of the train
Is the song of the aeroplane
Is the song of the roadway wagons rolling
Sunday 3 June 2018
First Two Lines, Gifted As Always
If we took off for the summer
If we took off for a song
If we sort of did a runner
Would you my love, would you come along
If we found the half-light
On the West Atlantic trail
Would you be with me in the morning
As the winds of time set sail
Right now I see the grasses
At the dawning of the night
As the clouds move dusk thus passes
And the lens catches the last of the light
Through the small picture window
The pace of life is steadfastly honed
Each new scene is a movement
Colours so so freely loaned
If we took off for the summer
Would you happily come along
If we sort of did that runner
Would you shout out for a song
If we took off for a song
If we sort of did a runner
Would you my love, would you come along
If we found the half-light
On the West Atlantic trail
Would you be with me in the morning
As the winds of time set sail
Right now I see the grasses
At the dawning of the night
As the clouds move dusk thus passes
And the lens catches the last of the light
Through the small picture window
The pace of life is steadfastly honed
Each new scene is a movement
Colours so so freely loaned
If we took off for the summer
Would you happily come along
If we sort of did that runner
Would you shout out for a song
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