Sin Street. Sitges. 2017.

Sin Street. Sitges. 2017.

 

Narrow streets criss-cross

in a town that once was

heavy with the swaying legs

of mariners and anglers home from the sea.

 

Now it is swollen by the lustful stares

of men who harbour thoughts of other men

and women too who have a passion

for one another’s views.

 

Rows of seats line up facing each other

far from ambivalent

readied as if to joust

with anyone in a queue.

 

The pedestrian is fair game,

not so much for molestation

but the hungry appraisal of passing trade

discussing weights and measures.

 

Sin Street seethes in any light

at any time of day

but comes into its own at night

when darkness swells the fever.

Preparation

Preparation.jpg

The sky spits loose slivers

of perspiration from above

that echoes off leaves

from a canopy of trees

that rustle and murmur

in a soft, disturbed breath

that is soothing.  Sounds kind.

A suitable accompaniment for

quiet thoughts

more often prone to find

hindrance and the staccato

of static,

that annoying rattle in

the displeased mind.

The roar of disapproval

in the untrained ear.

And all of it is the concentrate

of the elemental. Fear or joy.

So I wonder

‘which way is it for me’

Which leaf fall. Which echo

will resonate.

Which path will swallow

my stride.

Hello

hello

Come find me passion

Maraud across my open spaces

My steppes, swept and dried

tinged and longing for

infinity

where an echo is out-run

Where lines are drawn and forgotten

like desire that apes only

the very best moments.

All definition and certainty

subsumed in the haste

to consume a lavish meal.

Drowned and spent

The residue. A crust

A lost love affair,

all misty

And so I go

to each new day

An addition. A loss. A stroke

An explosion of now

Start me up

MeLearned Fish.jpg

First light. Untrammelled by fear

The first thought. That fragile thing

Those first moments unleashed

Before the day unfurls

That precious arc. The fisherman’s net,

cast wide

Should always be an optimistic sweep

Of eyes not yet occluded by doubt

Limbs not bothered by gravity

And a heart willing to pump

Fresh energy. To gather-up

The mornings catch

On the verge

On the verge.

Would beauty do?

Alone amongst the gristle of the everyday

A poppy waves not red but orange

On a supple stalk that eeks succour

From a brutal verge

A nondescript suburban highway

Cuts gradients and shapes

The enforced conformity of progress

Into vectors that cars and lorries

Stamp upon

Yet on the side

Emerging from the shoulders of a mole

Crusty pellets of dry earth

Sustain that orange flag

Defiantly romantic. Almost carefree

A splash of colour

Raising hope on a flag-pole

Against the dirty clamour

Of so many imagined goals

Softens the view

Mood

Mood

 

Camellia blooms lay

Like rosettes

Thrown away in pique

On the road-side verge

Adrift now and prey

To neglect. That long death

When colours go to grey

And lazy feet

Mince their soft flesh

Into the deep gravy of earth

But if you correct the view

That line of sight

Can be assailed by crisp

Tight buds and petals in their prime

And you might forget

That sense of loss

Dear Bob

Dear Bob.

You passed away yesterday

Leaving a clean slate

And the feint trace, of warmth

Departing from hospice sheets

That held you in an open secret

For dignity to win that ‘fixed’ race

To the edge of darkness, then

Acceptance in sleep

Peeling away. All loss. All gain.

Re-calibrated

Everything now beyond recrimination

So swim now

Free from the tug of predatory tides

As if now is just imagination

Some superimposition

A victory for the nebulous thought

Over some brutal facts

Sit heavy, brooding in half-filled silence

Thud. The blood densely coursing

Thoughts haltingly coherent

Fragments at some barrier

Looking for lucid

And church bells chime

It is Sunday

Does that bring clarity?