Nothing in life
Needs to move too too quickly
Even the Formula One
Grand Prix races
Are only once a fortnight
So the cars could, in fact
Go much more slowly
I did walk
To the farm shop, and back
Thinking of a few poems
Along the footpaths and the tracks
But I did not settle for long
And that impatience
Tinges the corners of these words
Thursday 18 October 2018
Wednesday 17 October 2018
Tobacco Road
Thirteen years ago
I smoked a pack of Camel Light
Almost every day; they were
My defence mechanism
Nowadays I write poems
With about the same frequency
And, or so I begin to believe
For much the same purpose
They prevent intrusion
They facilitate introduction
Could have been the death of me
Could be the death of me
I smoked a pack of Camel Light
Almost every day; they were
My defence mechanism
Nowadays I write poems
With about the same frequency
And, or so I begin to believe
For much the same purpose
They prevent intrusion
They facilitate introduction
Could have been the death of me
Could be the death of me
Tuesday 16 October 2018
Deep South
The father, after a little persuasion
Bought his son, the waiter
A latte coffee to drink outside
Meanwhile the American guy
Buys another shot of expresso
And sits down beside me
We talk of money
Doctors, and lawyers, o yes
And we talk about boxers
All of these types you see
Have to have a ruthless streak
They are not always to be trusted
Bought his son, the waiter
A latte coffee to drink outside
Meanwhile the American guy
Buys another shot of expresso
And sits down beside me
We talk of money
Doctors, and lawyers, o yes
And we talk about boxers
All of these types you see
Have to have a ruthless streak
They are not always to be trusted
Monday 15 October 2018
Time Out
Today I walk the same path
I see flowers in the verges
I see sheep’s wool on the fences
I walk faster than yesterday
For now I know where I am going
Because of my increased pace
I have longer to pause; to look
At the butterflies more closely
Such as the one of plain colour
A mousy-brown, yes perhaps
A field mouse, without any
Of those crazy orange patterns
I see flowers in the verges
I see sheep’s wool on the fences
I walk faster than yesterday
For now I know where I am going
Because of my increased pace
I have longer to pause; to look
At the butterflies more closely
Such as the one of plain colour
A mousy-brown, yes perhaps
A field mouse, without any
Of those crazy orange patterns
Sunday 14 October 2018
Chiaroscuro
A clear blue sky
A still still tree
Light lilac flowers
Whose name I do not know
Though I do know someone
Who very well might
I do know sunlight
I do know shadow
I do know the sound of birds
And the aeroplane above
To say that this is a pleasure
Would be an understatement
Yet still I will say it
A still still tree
Light lilac flowers
Whose name I do not know
Though I do know someone
Who very well might
I do know sunlight
I do know shadow
I do know the sound of birds
And the aeroplane above
To say that this is a pleasure
Would be an understatement
Yet still I will say it
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