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Soft vows subside on the kerb

 in a gathering of yellows and browns surrendering

as a light wind makes the leaves skittish

 and those with memories,

those most recently released from the bough

and fallen through shafts of sun

 form a duvet that wraps itself

against the cold of a new,

coming season.

 This is yet another turning point

against a casual hand that insists

we go blind to history and forget

that time and tide are cycles

we dare not ignore

lest the light goes out.

27th July. A thursday Sitges. 2017.

Calle Bonnaire

 

Brilliant light.

Sounds coming up to us. These narrow streets

funnel the noise and amplify it somehow, though not aggressively.

Just daily life. Unaffected.

Take it or leave it discourse.

The rubbing along of a more or less polite society

It is music I think. An opera. Small voices confiding.

A mother and daughter. Then the strident tones of a trader.

Rumbling of wheels on the flagstones and sweeping

that sometimes imitates the washing of the sea.

Sea rising in sympathy with troubled air and the moon

and dancing with feathered caps as it races toward the shore

where it rests and tells stories to the incoming waves.

Then they all re-group somehow with an inward suck

and slink back to the great body of water before returning

with fresh stories that only fishermen can attempt to interpret.

Then hasty steps and furtive steps. The drill of some pneumatic tool

and of course the declamatory siren of a car alarm from time to time.

Patrice and I. We in our pools of quiet reflection are content

to sit naked and inconspicuous yet so close to all of the life going on.

We make plans slowly and wonder if we should have another cup of tea.

Appendectomy 5.5.17

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they are apparitions

wand like figures

on a bent horizon

so diffident they can’t explain

released from the holding room

my body transcends it’s organs

and slips beyond responsibility

to that place where darkness is not king

for the fear has been released

so that white bleaches the figures

whose honed titanium blades slit

the fortress of my containing skin

their spoils are mine, to discard

my body relieved these gods disappear

back to a life of their own

and return to me as haunts

bye bye man

bye bye man

under a black felt brim

eyes dark with a candour

that have seen all manner of things

wonder whether they should plead

for clemency or a piece of that notion

that compassion will cure all ills

for in that stare so many fires

have withered on coals

raked over and left cooling till

soft grey ash is swept up on murmurs of

casual air

those whispered endearments

and promises that sustain a heart

that wishes to pump more

than just blood

around the ache of desire

He knows in there

there is no room for mercy

for justice will be implacable

His day is up

and so

under that felt overhang

he has already gone

Never did

never-did

I never had authority, a uniform

so now, as age advances

and men in suits strut and utter

incoherent commands

I am more, not less confused

Their balance sheets and due diligence

find me straggling in a long column

of easily forgotten figures

wrapped in the inconvenient flag of conscience

But in that too there lacks an impetus

that will to fight has gone

and with it any hope

for the spoils of victory

The swagger of the coming man has gone

like a moon shadow

that softest of forms recedes

ambiguous in departure

from the territories of man and boy

going quietly to a greater dark