From A Childhood

 

It’s late, the sky’s my screen. Laurence Olivier is fleeing

through a forest, dark fronds clutching, clawing at him;

a gothic tale, full of the drama of black and white.

The forest is vast and he must run blindly through it,

somewhere behind is the story I haven’t seen, and

somewhere ahead is a boundary with a land no one knows.

I am at my window, the land I know is quenched;

above, across the inexplicable expanse of the Heavens, is adventure;

I watch it, take it to my bed, and know tomorrow colour will return.

Happy New Year.

You are

 

Life is a flash,

and loving is its perfect state.

I never looked for sparkle in people,

never quite expected it,

but age has a separate lens,

polished by time,

tempered by experience;

through that,

I see

that you are my bright light.

Being

 It's not quite Christmas but the contentment would be a wish. 

Being.

A sparkling Summer’s afternoon,

not doing, but being.

A solar panel,

bang centre of the back garden,

converting energy to contentment,

while activity is reduced

to fingertips running along the suede

of newly mown grass

and time is suspended,

dissipated into the blue yonder.

Windy Day

 

On a windy day, I, cloud,

trees and grass are one and

heaven, earth and water;

blue of sky trimmed with

cloud white and drizzle grey,

sway of branches, swell of

waves and dresses, flight

of hats and litter down street,

astray, voices from mouths,

birds careering into beyond

and leaves’ mouths lisping

off tune in the brightly breeze

lifting, hues patched and

colours drifting; eyes’ lights

and hearts billowing upward.

Migrants arriving at European borders

How wonderful the European stars must look

strung along the wire strands of border fences

or those butterflies, the endless coils of razor wire.

One might, upon seeing them, be reminded of staves

of music: Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms

or lines of text: Shakespeare, Dante, Cervantes,

or how civilisation was aghast seeing those photographs:

the skeletal faces of the innocent behind Auschwitz fences;

the horror that such could happen in our own time.

A Hand in Water

 

A Hand in Water

for my father

Trailing a hand from a boat:

that morning sluicing through my fingers

was my most perfect with you.

More than fifty years on,

the memory is in my fingers

as I watch a Hollywood hand trawl water.

Fishing for sunlight on a lake is a carefree pursuit,

not so fishing for your smile in memories;

but that flow through my fingers

is the feeling of complete happiness,

though the smile I’ve given you

may well be my own production.

When

When I brush my hair,

it sweeps over your head.

When I button up my coat,

you snuggle inside.

When I exert myself,

you mop your brow.

When I settle myself on the couch,

you tuck your legs up.

When I close my eyes,

you daydream.

When you go,

I will be no more.