Many Miles of Space

Cricket commentary

On the iPhone

In quite open country

Yet with the TV mast

Clearly in view

Blue skies

With hardly a cloud

A strong wind

Possibly from the East Coast

Ben Stokes

New to the crease

Excites the fielders

Huddled around the bat

The fly, on the screen

Jumps to the cheers

As Joe Root loses his wicket

To Naseem Shah

Classic test cricket

So the commentator tells me

But that’s it for now

As I choose to click

And save the beauty

  

Literally, No

Too far to walk
With such indigestion
Too far from home
With this pressing need

Yet the bush
Is such a perfect place
With stone flags
Beneath my feet

The wind whistles
Over my shoulder
Then just as quickly
It settles to a breeze

A warm Zephyr
With the occasional urge
Of a more forceful wind
To keep me wondering

And of course I have
Come here to wonder
At the roll of the wolds
With the certainty of trees

Much as if travelling
On the Trans-Siberian railway
Up and over, or through the Ural Mountains
Then all along the self-levelling Steppes

  

Introversion

One more day of not knowing

One more long night to look forwards to

If you do not join in

Why would anyone join in with you

If you choose not to put yourself out there

Why should anyone choose to put out to you

One more season of not knowing

One more dull Saturday to look forwards to

 

Voids Below

For that one moment

While making coffee

At the kitchen worktop

I was back in Anchor Court

Over thirty years ago

That once new place

Won’t be so new today

Those bygone daydreams

Have also faded

As dust indeed does turn to dust

Such that floor joists

Beneath lifted floorboards

Now come to mind

In a way that only my memory

Is able to conjure up

What was there is there

What it meant is not

What happened happened

And how it felt, did not die

But dust indeed does turn to dust

 

Days Like These

That Monday should be the day

As all days sometimes have to be

When the sunlight and the fly

Are encouraged to co-exist

Or that this day, or that day

Could be any other day

With the breeze through the trees

Making its own way, independently

That the dream should be so clear

You know, to be totally remembered

In one fell swoop

At least that is how it somehow seems

Of course many corrections had to be made

For who knows what past associations

Our dreams may, or may not, represent

Besides our life mistakes along the way

That Monday should be the day

For the conscious, and the sub-conscious

To fully arrive, within their integration

From the stocks complete with their chattels

Or, for that matter, that this day

Much indeed as any, or many others

Begins

With a few moments of our own forgiveness