Treasures

So far away

A minute stick of a figure

At the water’s edge

In his own world

Yet now, also

In my world

Trouble, as they say, sets out

At the double

To disturb his peace

More-so, the cloud cover

Has changed the waters colours

Caught the shadows on the hop

The white windmills

For now they are all white

Their greys having been despatched

By the twirling blades

He doesn’t move at the double

Troubles himself instead, to focus

On that extremely fine line

Where land meets sea

Where new light travels

Along the East Coast continuum

From the Wash to the Humber

From the gifts of the gifted, to those as given

  

  

Here As Elsewhere

The seed heads

Of the dry grasses

Crumble

In my fingers

Spreading their futures

Into the marshes

Eventually, most likely

Out towards the horizon

Where, one hopes

That sky and sea will meet

Or at least share

A place with a view

It could have been

A John Miller

‘Summer Sandbar’ painting

Except this is not Cornwall

Nor is this the Atlantic

Although the light, yes

The light is equally magical

Today I am told

That there are definitely seals

And so the cameras

With significant zoom lenses

Are called into action

To remember the day

  

Also Days Like These

Just to sit here and write

On the old bench

At Gibraltar Point

With the warm wind

From the salt marshes

Admiring the white clouds

Beneath the blue sky

Listening to the warblers

And the human conversations

Which are always with us

Lots of flags

And marker posts

On the way

Or pointing to

The safer ways

Now the sunlight

Bright and piercing

Brings the flowers

Into bloom; one more

Summer for the taking

Among the grasses

Before the bridge

Which we will be crossing

Once the car parking

Has been paid for

  

Mapping Out

One more black americano

One more morning in the town

The charity shops are waiting

As the shoppers stroll around

One more time to the hairdressers

One more perm for the crown

The health food shop is salivating

As vegans and vegetarians mill around

Break out by the big-shot

Hear the fire of musket sound

Hares out there on the blue-heath road

In search of spring so I’ll be bound

All it takes is concentration

Some days not even that

The devil it is in the detail

So play sir, pray take off your hat

The radiator looks just right

Its style suits its situation

If only I was at the seaside

Instead of at home on staycation

But at least we are safe

Or that's how it seems so I am told

I didn’t bring my mobile phone

So the trail of track and trace

May, by now, have become rather cold

  

Drilling Down

The idea

Is that the idea

In itself

Is sufficient to focus on

Just as if

The idea was a pebble

To be viewed

From each and all standpoints

Even to be touched

That is

If ever we can work out

How to touch ideas

What would

The hand feel like

If plunged into a bucket

Of ice-cold ideas

Much easier it might seem

To question the idea

With some rigueur

Or fortitude

Perhaps not as a pebble

But now as an acorn

Offering the possibility

To reach its kernel