Temeraire

So now I see you
Indeed
I sit on the beech
To look across at you

Others arrive
A few words are spoken
There are finer hours
Yet this one

It is the one
That you captured
It is the one
We might all remember

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Scottish Songs

Fight
And
Optimism
And
Not all lament
And
Everybody sees
And
Is in a different way

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Breath Of Air

The quiet sea
Is in the next room
Behind the dividing wall
Hidden from my view, as I sit
On this wooden contemporary seat
Listening to whispered conversations
Listening to, meditating; feeling the flow
Of the colder air, from the air-conditioning

One wonders
That it is not sprinkled
With the scent of salt, or the blood
Of mackerel, or the smouldering slag-heaps
Of coal, or the miasma of war, or the shipwrecks
Caught by oil on canvas in the artists London studio

One might also ask
Why do I write, while my
Friends study the paintings
Why do I write, when I specifically
Came here, to be immersed in the art

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A Little Sitting

Breakfast was a cold buffet affair, continental as it is so called, so I am told, in more exploitative places.

I am reminded of the German, three-storey, three-family house, where we stayed when working at Hannover Fair.

Sun-bleached grasses decorate the gentleman’s urinals. I have no second point of reference on this occasion, it has been a quiet life.

A photograph of Queen Victoria looks out across the garden. She would have no need of the Japanese fan today.

It is quite truly an oasis of calm; beneath the worlds busiest flight path, besides the Dockland's Lightest Railway.

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Royal Foundation of St. Katherine

16:58
Tall Windows
Aircraft overhead
Distant traffic altercations

My feet are tired with the walking
Although on this day
We have much further yet to walk

We had lunch at the Italian restaurant
Sated, we soon had had enough
Of the afternoon shopping expedition

Under my skin I feel resounding warmth
A buzz that comes
From a few quiet moments in the chapel

My football team went and lost again today
I expect the managers head may soon roll
Yet tomorrow
We will all catch our trains home

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Shot

The silver bark
Of the silver birch
The golden leaf
Of England's church

The native lark
Of natures morn
The tied up sheaf
Of country sworn

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Polished

We walk on the wall tops
Between promenade and sea
Beneath silver moonlit clouds
Reflecting the castle on the waves

We turn, and then turn again
To be the harlequins of the night
Clothed in silk and braid and velvet
Dancing to the dark oceans rhythms

I never would have flown,
Or made such a wondrous leap
If love that came calling had not been
So damned well beautifully overwhelming

We walk the cities streets, sodium
On the spires, halogen on the fountains
We see the polished balls roll on green baize
With their cue masters settled in the cloisters

We turn, and then turn again
To be favourites of the famous
Graciously groomed and prepared
Singing with those sisters of harmony

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Covers

I watched you write
In your smart striped suit
Thinking, as one might
I’d rather like those boots

Your hands so slow
With eyes set keen
We sit in rows, now
Where have you been

You pause for a drink
Also me, yes this is me
I will not sink
Can’t you see

The echoes fall
Resoundingly so
You make your call
I, I have to go

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Bridge

The canal surface is calm
The wind turbines are still
The power station is quiet
The morning mist is lying
And what about you
And what about me

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Ajar

A door finds its own place of rest
This need not be fully open, nor fully closed
The natural position will depend on many things:

The geometry, set up by the skill of the craftsman
When the door was hung, and balanced upon its hinges

The forces at play, perhaps a draught through a nearby passage
A rug, or carpet, or loose flooring that creates friction at the underside

The weight, and the fortitude of the door, which brings its own resilience
Enables its own inherent ability to stay put where it determines to stay put

If we wish to have the door fully open, or fully closed
We may have to employ additional methods or mechanisms:

A jam to wedge beneath, probably with a gripping and kicking routine
Or a weighty stop, a cast iron relic, that is given to lazily lay in a leaning posture

A catch to catch upon a hook, or a latch with a push or a slam to assist the location
Maybe also with a key-lock, or bolt, which raises security, to a purposeful higher plane

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Over Arched

Old stone buildings
Castles, hotels and public bars
A feast day in the Basque Country
Your friends; excitable, too excited
Pulling lights, and coffee makers
From the walls of reception rooms

You try to repair the damage
But have no tools to reconnect
The oversized electric wires

You stand aloof
With a calm, clearer view
Of the distant horizon
You expect she will
Arrive soon enough
But for the moment

You are independent
Majestic in your oneness
Sound in this your homeland

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Intrinsically Given

In the instant
Of reading that one word
An entire mountain of miasma is swept aside

And how, the Buddhist might ask
Could you invest such trust in another’s
Simple expression

Easy becomes love
When the merest hint
Of the gift of affection is offered
Said the poet, the writer, the flaneur of dreams

I ask that you don't give up
For I have given up
Given up way too often
Given up way too soon

In that moment
Imagining the one word spoken
The aeroplane of joy is already boarded

And how, the analyst might ask
Could you hold such faith in one others
Sonic explorations

Vibrations of love
Soothe and excite our minds
As potent as the gift of youth's elixir
Said the poet, the writer, the flaneur of dreams

Four crows cling to a sapling
Two flocks fly above
Above of who knows where
Above of who knows why

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Perceptions

Every image carries the means of resurrection
The reams of recollections pour forth unabated
Light and darkness equally weighted, sincere
That the reappearances were unplanned, more
By chance, and happenstance than any more
Furtive or regurgitative motive, voted in by
Darker knights, or prevailing queens, scenes
Of love, and lore, and lust before the cusp of
Nightfall called again, for fear of falling rain
The pain is covered with just enough green
Tarpaulin to turn the nosey parkers rolling back
Stacked up against the often, slow-played, refrain
The midnight train, to nowhere more than images
That flash by, for girls that cry, and boys so sly
Going away to that land of evermore, to score the
Fateful wonder why, trying, dying for introspection
As if their correction could be found on rails that
Run underground, that sound out the steelwork
Echoes, the ghettoes of the fathers past, the last
Night at the proms, the Strombolian sailor boy
Who casts out, with a faded shout; land ahoy, decoys
Are everywhere, however deep the stare, or quick
The glimpsing of ships that passed in the night
Tighter now, shedding plight of previous owners
Condoners of the ugly sins, loans made within
To souls that have fallen into disrepair, fearful of
Their dereliction of duty, and absentmindedness

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Picture Perfect

I am in this quiet place
It is where I want to be

I have desire for no more excitement
Than to feel the suns rays pierce
The window panes, and fall
Warmly onto my lap

Through your photographs I saw that
Other kind of drama, the turbulence
Of raw passion, the emotion, as
The storm clouds gathered

We are in these quiet places
It is where we want to be

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Disassemble

I will find my own place of quietness
That I may both think, and daydream
Space without silence, and yet space
Free of the noise of subjugation

The uneven walk alongside
The wild side of the hedgerow
A wander on the vague path
Through the adjoining pastures

Taking the mantle of the flaneur
Who, with keen observation, might
Allow all of our intrinsic machinery
To whirl altogether more smoothly

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Visuals

Fallen leaves
Laid out at random
On the early morning
Frosted garden

A dry stone wall
Gives adequate protection
From the sparkling white light
Of a peaceful meditation

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Ludovico Shares Our Room

A piano plays
A light shines
We are happy together
We are happy also
When we are apart

A radiator warms
A curtain closes
We are as happy as ever
We are as happy
As we were at the start

Time passes by
Time moves on
We ought not to say never
Or put the horse
Before the cart

Darkness comes
Illumination fades
I don’t want to write clever
Neither to be the dartboard
For the penetrating dart

Inside the mind
Of our well-being
Isn’t it always, and forever
Unlike that swinging
Pendulum that is the heart

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05:45

In this quiet room
In this still cocoon
In this place
Where my mind can zoom
I think of you

In this early hour
In this idle power
In this space
With time enough to flower
I think of you

In this artificial light
In this lux way too bright
In this haven
With no desire at all to fight
I think of you

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Slowly Molten

And the words we write
While free of all consequences
Might well talk of brilliant light arising

At or around four o’clock of the morning
Or speak of a pristine darkness falling
Into our souls, sometime after midnight

And the joy we feel, interminably
When caught out by past coincidences
That too is able to be rightful, or seasonal

Such as any time, in breeze, or calm
With love absent, or love by your side calling
To all those doubts hidden in the shadows

And the time to be delirious
With the warmth of well-fired furnaces
That burn now, or that have burnt before

With sparks, and flames, and magical
Vapours filled to overflowing, as if volcanic
Gasses, surging with red-hot desire, and emotion

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Repeats

Words may be chosen at will
With formalised structure
Or randomly placed

Their roundabout; of path
Or journey, or coast to coast
Narrative, is of footsteps fallen

Lonesome steps, in the dry heat
Of summer; looking out to sea
From a haven of meadow grass

Lonesome steps, in the cold frosts
Of winter, piercing into the distant
Fields, where nature is taken to turn

To be the chosen one, or silently unspoken
Or the mildly flamboyant, and once more awoken
Onto whose hopes we might rest

Smile at their compilation, pass on
Some sense of their richness, and colour
For the days whose heads they may countenance

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In That One Afternoon

Not even the whole of it
Yet with ample time
To recollect one quarter of
A well lived life

And now the heart beats
And now the eyes smile
And now the lucid thoughts
And now…

Fight off the tears of nostalgia
Quash all hopes of return
Deny doubts of past indecisions
Crumple up those old forgotten notes

For yours is
Your life only
Your heartbeats, your smiles
Your new breath; for you alone to breathe

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Half Ellipse

On the road, good and early
Through the morning light
Thoughts of the weekend
Mind drifting to vacation

Simplicity of one bright day
Energy to give energy
Life to give life
Love to give love

To enter a silence
A calm, of sorts
Wanting to be doing
Yet not knowing what to do

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Infinitely

From that opening
The chasm
With cracks around the edges

There was an outpouring
Or a way in
To a galaxy of stars

As if the mind itself
Was asking to be explored
Sung in tune with inner visions

Singing, welcome, welcome
That we might vibrate
Into your universe

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La Victoria, La La La

Silhouette, is that how they spell it
A range of mountains across the water
From our dinner-table
A foreshore, over there, with lights strung up

We had Paella, after starters
We had  wine, before after-dinner drinks
We listened to the  cicada's
And prepared ourselves, for mosquitoes

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AM St Salvador

I am warm
Sat in the quiet common room
We have no plans
Except the pleasure of your birthday

Already we have been to church
Looked in on the nativity scenes
Compared the gift shop
To something from Father Ted

You tell me it is due to rain, I reply
But it isn't raining now
And they will only be showers
Not like the real rain back home

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Windolene

Into that sunlight of idleness
No need to stretch ourselves
Before and behind our eyelids
Time just to be
Time just to be

On to those flickers of dustiness
No need to clear ourselves
Ahead and across our vision
Speckles to see
Speckles to see

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Outside

It was cold
And I was ok with that

The crazy paving was dry
The garden grass was wet
And I thought that was fine

The car boot clicked
And opened

I saw the porridge
The day had started well

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A 26 Mile Walk For A Bar-Meal

On this day, when I read the obituary of a man whose destination was Sheffield

I was told, by a different man, the story of him getting lost in the woods, with a psychologist from match.com

And a lady came by East Coast Rail, to tell the story of putting the young couple, on their honeymoon, into single beds

Earlier, by the fire, old photographs were browsed, from the black-and-white, and sepia-tone archives

The few were gathered, before you spoke carefully chosen words, of love, and care; you told of a life well lived

I myself had a moment, on leaving the shopping centre, where I had left you, so that you might catch your own train, half way home

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Thornton-in-Craven

The canary yellow wall had a coal fire at its heart
A fire, that on this November the fourth morning
Like many November the fourth mornings
Had been lit good, and early
Such by the time that we arrived
It had a warm and welcoming glow

To the right of the fire
Not quite in the alcove sat Andrew; a man
Who knew a good deal about photography
He told me that the bright sunlight, which
Was falling onto the chimney breast
Would make it a difficult image to capture

He also told me that he had spent a large
Part of the last years of his wife’s life
‘Watching on’ instead of ‘joining in’ thanks
To his fascination with the camera
I took photo’s anyway, with Kate’s smartphone
A few shots, although I haven’t yet seen them

I doubt that I captured the honeycomb
Of golden fragments, that fell from the crystal
And scattered themselves in the hearth of the fire
Neither did I pick out the words inside the cards
That cluttered the mantelpiece, beneath
The painting of a younger woman

We listened to Paulo Nutini
We heard him many times, on that day
We talked about an underground ballroom
At the Harley Art Gallery, somewhere near Worksop
I told Andrew about an obituary, that I had read
In the morning’s Guardian newspaper

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Reminder To You

Don’t forget this day
The first frost of a new winter
The Skipton hotel
With a glass-case of jewellery, and pottery
Your black dress, with autumn flowers
My dark bespoke suit, and heavy overcoat

Don’t forget we had time
To sit in front of Ruth’s coal fire
Have friendly conversations
Shine shoes
With metallic shoe-polish
And prepare for the service

Don’t forget your spoken words
And your hand, touched
To the coffin; but first
The words spoken informally
By Grace; words of the treasured
Times they had shared

Don’t forget the meal
The stories of Bob’s adventures
With computer dating; remember
His story of getting lost
In the woods, with the psychologist
That he met on match.com

Don’t forget to try and create
An image of Ruth, and Rosie
Out, on their early morning
Walk, in the fields, with
Fiona’s dog, in the countryside
Around Thornton-in-Craven

Don’t forget how we kissed
Outside the toilets
In Meadowhall; you taking
Back shoes, and buying
A coat that I have not
Yet seen

Don’t forget I am
Writing this at three
O’clock in the morning
And that there is doubtless
Much, much more
That I have already forgotten

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Delicate

What is missing
Is what I choose
My way
Of keeping private

Those particular
Personal relationships
That in any event
Are difficult to transpose

From the significant
Insignificant airs
To the insignificant
Significant words

The girl, there with her mother
Trying on the Tyrian
Purple velvet coat, and floppy hat
Being one such moment

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