Silk or aluminium, the
Minimum thrust; lust
Across silver skies
Trust those who do, just
As to leave the rest
At home, all alone
With their doubts
And limited destinations
The station points
Changed, I rearranged
The circumstances; took
Chances galore
More I shouted; always
To up the ante, whilst not
Ever, fully knowing the score
I never did become a pilot although I did flirt with the idea of buying a hot air balloon, then, a few years later, my lover of the time gave to me the birthday present of a flying lesson.
So I did take hold of the stick, if that’s the phrase, above the Channel Island of Jersey.
It was a calm day; ten minutes into the flight the instructor handed over the controls and advised me on manoeuvres.
We took in the sights; I was excited, elated, joyful as we circled in the skies above St. Helier, then onto St. Aubin; growing with confidence I responded positively to all I was asked to try, though still with some trepidation.
That was before he said:
'Do you want to land the aeroplane?’
We descended slowly, steadily to begin with, although the ground fair rushed beneath us towards the end; either way we did it, and I felt awfully good about all three of us.
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The final photograph of 2004 was of my ex, it was taken outside of our house, on Christmas Day, in the snow; she looks moribund, vulnerable; there is that lost soul look in her eyes.
At the beginning of 2005 she was to tell me that she didn’t want to be my lover anymore; she said we could remain as friends, but our time as a couple had come to an end.
I was fearful of such an arrangement, I was even more fearful of being in her vicinity as I tried to build a new life for myself, consequently I left the family home, moved up country.
The poems are created, rewritten or edited in June, July and August 2018. The work is in preparation for an Arvon course which begins at the end of August, it is about putting together a poetry collection.
The final reworking of the poetry took place at Buckfast Abbey, in October, where I found the following words in Hubert Van Zeller’s book: We Live With Our Eyes Open, in a short story entitled Sex:
“Good heavens, so that’s the answer. Well I do call that beautiful, don’t you? Really beautiful. And to think that until this moment I simply hadn’t a clue.”
It is beautiful; all that people are waiting for is the clue.
We had held onto that clue, for quite some time actually.
The last visitors to our house
Sensed something was wrong
A marked lack of conversation
Pauses, which lasted way too long
Quite a lack of togetherness
You didn’t join us for the walk
No Bon-homie then offered
Rather, a stiffness to the talk
Hours of feeling awkward
Desperate to take their leave
Dust still on the floorboards
Heavy was the air to breathe
Unsure of where the love had gone
No sounds nor gestures made
Emptiness is the place of suffering
Darkness thus the tools of trade
That I didn’t see it, not a jot
Indeed, half thought all was well
That I did not reach out to realise
Is symptomatic of the lies I tell
I am on ground without conviction
New territory
Yet a calm place
Even with the aroma of creosote
These are big old trees
Which the warm breeze
Rustles through, as if waves
On the almost settled ocean
There is generosity to be had here
Says he, with the mistral
Moving into his left shoulder
It is ok to feel for you
Right from the very start
Right to the final departure
Also here right now
However many years on
To be alive is the greatest gift
For a while we walked there
I was not easy to live with
Though neither were you
But from this timely distance
This new, occupation of being
I will offer you back the dance steps
I will pass the baton on
