rainfall on a monday morning

 

rainfall on a manday morning.pic-001

 

one son has gone to view a property in Peterborough

the other son went to work in Surbiton

and here I am wondering about Win Wong

a Chinaman I met on holiday in the Maldives

What is going on in my  head?

how goes it as I sit with my coffee in a quiet house

my wife about to go to work

and I am left with the simple task of walking the dog-

I’ll probably go to Sunbury

the earth it seems is spinning on it’s own head-strong celestial axis

and me- I’m powerless as I recall the Tuna Win Wong caught

on a strip of line with one fatal hook

that my wife and I ate that night

on an atoll in the Indian ocean

one night that seems so far away that I

may be still in the land of dreams but

‘one last thing’, she says as she goes

‘please put out the bin, it smells’

Start me up

Start me up. pic

 

 at first light untrammelled by fear

the first thought, that fragile thing

is wary in the unfolding moments

before the day expands

into a precious arc like a fisherman’s net,

cast wide;

and it should always be an optimistic sweep

of eyes not yet occluded by doubt

limbs not yet bothered by gravity

and a heart willing to pump

fresh energy to gather-up

the mornings catch

a walk around the cricket pitch

a walk around the cricket pitch. pic for poem

 

on and on the breath, in columns, goes

onwards as if marching to roam

beyond far walls and more beyonds  than an Irish spell

and in the margins crickets make their chirrups

of beating wings but I hear only silence and solemn air

and my wife is exasperated that I cannot hear them

as their agitation is all around,  so she tuts,

making her own boundary wall of sound to admonish me

for my deafness to the cricket’s pitch

and I wonder as we perambulate whether

I am lacking in other ways and whether

monogamy is all they crack it up to be

after all this time living in sighs

perhaps I have been caught Leg Before Wicket

a premature end to my meanderings

never mind . another circuit. more raucous appeals

and we’ll leave it all behind

the umpire at the centre and the scorer at the margins

a wide open door – and dreams

My amour-plated heart

My amour-plated heart. pic

 

I am curious in a casual way

to enquire within

to knock at the door behind which

failed space and ruins lurk in shrouds

grief looms and guilt skitters not being quite

so apologetic

and if I were to enter in

would I trip and drown in tears spilt of love

lost in the commonwealth of desire sold short

the skirting boards and rough hewn timber prone

to splinter; a sea then, of waste and recrimination

and having entered in

would I seek solace in quiet things like thoughts or prayer

to unberth me from  the quay so that I could float

on principals and occupy untainted  air

to be a visitor, a welcome guest treading on the hearth

and be comfortable contained within the walls

and would I, so ensconced

be able to declare my love unflinchingly

offering up the dregs along with the spoons

and silverware; could I admit to all of it

and  suffer my lips to say- I love you?

Inca’s, temples and ruins

Inca's, temples and ruins. pic

 

the sun sweats it’s golden harvest

showering gifts and glistening just as

the ancients worshiped with their beliefs

shaped by pearls that were tears of the moon

come down like mercury to measure and reward  faith

 gods and idols worked so hard to stretch out into space

yet for all they knew the earth was flat

and now

we do the same but we have invented a vacuum

a spinning-top

moving fast and making danger commonplace

so now we face a holocaust in which

all that knowledge may go to waste

and all the dreams go dark