Reveille

Reveille. Poem

 

my wife curled in her warmth

our shared life in folds

the dog in her basket in repose

at ease in her domain

both supine

this day breaking gently

dull and grey, the lawn fresh mown

I have a cup of tea,  ruled lines and a pen that challenges

the yawning space of a day ahead

eternity safe in perpetual humour

What luxury is this?

 

The faint and pleasant tinkle of water pouring into the fish tank

Our own constructed water-fall seems to murmur in voices

forever in a charmed post-office queue

history and culture coalescing in the democratic act

of buying stamps

repetitions rising and falling in a contented chant

harking now in my mind to halcyon days

of village greens, Bobbies on Beats and buttery yellow daffodils

nostalgia forming a cloak of innocent lies

What is this? A moment of Grace?

I must remember. This is not a race

and in the end all I ever need to find is gratitude.

Take me to the river

Take me to the river. pic for poem.

 

blown down centuries unseen

the rivers limit

the rivers keen

a finger in the pie

of this island that is home

she swells with the tide

as she rides her natural imperatives

and recedes to reveal her banks and shores

with the incessant strip-tease of our lady, The Thames

all memories dissolved in the turmoil of constant change

but she is as modern as the craft

who take their pleasure upon her

whose oars slice the silken surface

making cuts for progress that heal

in the swirls between the stitches of strokes

 just as propellers screw her waters

into a vortex of energy

soon spent in froth and heaving swells

that slump upon the banks

but it is not as if she doesn’t care

for the truth is as prosaic as her habits

she is a witness without conceit

rising and falling in continual prayer

for history to unfold with virtue

Christopher

Christopher. Pic for poem

 

Shout. Scream

deny all knowledge of that dream

The distance yawns

and fills the void

with stale air and residues

of harm

that neglect will come to know

as regret

that cloying self-pity that hangs

on the rags of remorse

and renders even love

to shrug

and wonder why

 

My boy who is now a man

has drifted in that domain

and knows so little of me

save that I sired him

and hurt his mother cruelly

He finds forgiveness hard

Those blank years went down

in flames and hate

so only silence and darkness

could void the pain

but now I sense the permafrost

might thaw

and I may be allowed

to make some recompense

small reparations to the ship of love

in this slow cycle of drawing out

the heat from that scream

and venom from the shout

 

May soft lips form

around the eternity of air

 that sucks and strains to find

the letters that hide in space

and just might spell

an end to longing

Devon. Arch. View.

Devon. Arch. View. pic

lichen on old stone

it’s yellows and greens

in a texture of remembrance

add casual beauty to the aperture

of an arched window through which

one solitary sheep moves by inches

like a maggot across the sward

behind, though filling all the space

a clock ticks encircling me in the view

Bound by knowledge I struggle with

and anchored by all sorts of gravities

I accept an affinity

with that accumulating texture on the wall

and look up to see four more sheep

Where I sit, this place that faces

an old stone wall, ragged and thick

which was the slaughter-house of New Barn Farm

Outside, rough flagstones were the perimeter

of a killing zone. A way out of life

But now, swaying between the tick and tock

I count sheep. Innocent in the view

patient

Patient

like an atom adrift

in this vast body of parts

failing somehow

and all gathered because

one clock was an hour behind

another advanced by the same amount

‘nil by mouth’

time becomes obstinate

a mocking chant

not that of monks

no abeyance to humility

because the institution grinds away

at those within

with a remorseless appetite

habitually uncouth

and promising, always promising

an outcome. A deliverance.