Waking, overwhelmed.

This mind of mine,
this heart,
an instrument, fine tuned
to resonate,
respond, to the most
exquisite sorrow,
the mournful keening
at the centre of all things.

It sings with joy,
radiates love.
To know, to see, to feel
all that is.
Your eyes, your hair, your skin.
The roll of the earth
in its greens and golds,
silvers and greys.
The baby’s smile,
the last breath.
The bright white heat
at the heart of
destruction.
Creation.

And in knowing love
it knows loss.
Feels the world wrenched away
and cannot bear it.

There is no escape.
Only now.
This moment – you are in my
mind,
my heart,
my arms.

You who breathe,
who sleep,
who held me as a child.
This good earth
that carries me home.

This air in my lungs,
the shining stars of the sky.

I must not let the beauty
of the music
make me cry.

Knowing that the song must end.

Perhaps in truth,
I know we are only notes,
in a never ending
symphony.

Returning
to create new
harmonies –

through which
the infinite
makes itself known.

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National Poetry Day : Drury Lane

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My walk to work yesterday (captured for National Poetry Day)

From high above the city
(woke before dawn in darkness
Listening to the fading quiet –
A thin sliver of the night
heralded by wandering revellers
wending their way home
in dwindling numbers.

Rounded by the returning rumble
early traffic
bins and the yawning of the crane
Sweeping smooth like a Hopkins skate
across a gaping hole-

Hidden from pedestrian eyes,
We see it though,
who live as the crow flies.)

Descent and into the flow,
downstream,
down towards the stream
down Drury Lane past
the temple of the Great Architect –
not left to where William and Mary
tended the rose,
issued coins to aid the progress of the Rake.

No – to the Arc of the Aldwych,
with its chunky red necklace of buses,
sleek and new, sci-fi smooth,
going nowhere faster than you.

Thoughts trickle in here
What would it be like to do this every day?
Stop for coffee and watch the fray, the freyed and fraid.
Black beetle cabs scuttle and shine,
unburden themselves of their oblivious load –

Kerb to foyer past doorman and shining brass plaques.
Eyes high, coat over arm, briefcase, phone.
Places to go, people to see,

Except him. The man on the pavement
to the left of the $door.
The one they ignore
In their haste and importance.

The one who has seen
who has been
so much more
than they, than they know
but suffers now so
Gets no buttons and bows
no help this hero.

Left from the strand and on to the
wide open bridge.
Wide and wild, the wind over water
hair whipping the breeze
watching the churn and the eddies below
brown river of stories.
If I jumped here I see the strong arms
that would pull me down
my lungs would silt,
fill with mud, cool my blood
and still my restless dreams.

Where would we settle, come to land?
Be picked clean by cockney seagulls
or carried off past the barriers to sea.
Whitstable oysters come feed on me.

And now I meet my waterloo and hold.
Back into the belly of the beast.
A day begun, my captor resumes his feast.

Walking home, Pecket to Old Town, Twilight

sunset from pecket well
She dropped the Blood orange moon
and stained the evening sky,
a gluttonous autumn feast, raspberrie and plums
smeared from her sticky thumbs.
Mouth wiped clean on dusty clouds
and grey beard contrails that divide
the heavens – new realms of
mackrel scale, tabby fur, owl feather, speckled hen.
Waiting for the fire to go out.
I lost my breath, and then
a bat swoops low above
rose tinted thistledown.
The farmhouse’ sightless eyes
reflect the gaudy show –
delights for turks or shepherds or
weary walkers on their way to home and sleep –
a cut across the tops – a quiet treat.
Calves butt and play in twilight fields.
Heptonstall silhouette against the lurid sky.
Turning my back, not left to the black chapel
where we said our scarlet vows,
but down in the dark past
cricket pitch-black and silent
in the shadow of the mill,
Windchimes twinkle and blend with echoes
-clogs on cobbles, chattering and clattering,
Someone has left a coin in the washing machine.
Before me the moon in full display again,
Washed clean, damned spots got out.
Glory against an ink blue sky –
liquorice mountains in the early night.

Watershed

The land knows so much.
We should listen.
Day after day, night after night,
the shifting skies
unburden themselves.
Wring out the clouds
and this great green sponge –
she takes it in.
And in, and in.
Only glimpses,
gaps in the rock
to burbling streams
beneath –
revealing how close
to saturation point she is.
She can only absorb so much.
Only swallow so much
before the sweet water
starts to choke, to drown.
Sudden overspill,
and torrent,
rushing wild and cold
the ages of black
wet rock –
Water – life and death.
Picks us up like pebbles
throws us about.
Strips us bare –
down to the bed rock.
Our sharpened edges on show,
all topsoil gone
and the water level rising
– still rising in the neath.

Footprints in snow

Speeding backwards.
Black lines in the white.
Snowlight, so very bright –
like the future they say –
Should I be wearing shades?

Travelling in the other direction,
their distant faces flash by,
bewildering, shocking
blurring your world a few moments
before the blank page returns,
all jagged edges smoothed,
all contours standardised
details wiped out in the white out.

A painting, re-started
a life, re-booted.
Poor old Michael Finnegan
Begin again.

Speeding backwards
through the ice.
Birds black against the crystal carpet,
fight in the azure sky.
The trees would shatter,
if I touched them.
Memories, captured
in their twigs and branches,
running down in to my very roots –
Warmer beneath the earth.

But the snow will melt,
and the spring will come,
and new shoots will grow,
and the branches will be hidden
in their summer costume.
Or else they will die, and dry
and snap, and fall. Become the mulch
that feeds us all.

Winter sun

Honey glow.
Early evening cold gold barley mow.
Night’s long fingers reaching
Shadows stretched and tinting blue
the counterpaned and rolling view.
Despite the bright deceptive sun
the chill of winter has begun.
Wrap up warm. Scarf days
glove nights. Embrace
hot toddies, cinammon, twinkling lights.

Momentum

Another little one I came across while clearing out notepads. Happier this time. I think post-proposal.

Sudden rushing, racing sensation
as life crashes on by –
we are moving again,
emerging into the light
bright colours
sounds
Deafening
after the black silence
of the pause.
Excited, I face the future.
Suddenly it is waiting fore me.
Baking a cake.
Throwing a party.