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.

Good Morning

Good Morning

Good Morning

 

 

Soft pillows on a breeze

Roll across the blue drape,

curtain of beyond

 

We are clung hard by gravity

To the still surface of our world

Imagining. Always a little short

 

The obvious is always staring

Large and blunt

At my inadequacy

 

Implacable odds

The bookmaker smug in money

And I in self-pity. In fear

 

For sadness is lost time

I cannot inhabit that

Not all day. Not every day

 

So I would rather

Blush beneath my host

And live well in the weather.

BANG

BANG

BANG

BANG

 

Sobering to think

Each second

Each instant

Is loaded

 

We only need

To harvest

Potential

To ignite a spark

 

‘Only’ is preposterous

We angle at

A magic trick

The sleek back of a bullet

 

And somehow

In that ‘seized moment’

We are aligned

Past and future present

 

A marvellous particle

Immaculate on the back

Of fusion

And so we come and go

Walk.Thought.Walk.

Walk.Thought.Walk.

Walk.Thought.Walk.

Walk. Thought. Walk

 

Red soil rusting, a souvenir of the sun

Charmed fingers of furrowed soil stretching

Out across our fertile countryside

We dwell in the jig-saw of the lost and found

We lucky ones of the west

 

Today, the shortest

Begins in a grey shawl

Water-colour shades that seep

Against the edges of a brief history

When time is the fulcrum

 

Now hope teeters

On half formed desires

An ancient past and a future

That could be electric

So much in the balance of fractions

Mirror

Mirror

Mirror

 

Are there, tell me truth

Any not troubled by you

For even those blessed with youth

And ravishing

Have mental slips

And those higher-up, say famous

Can also succumb

Find frailty. Expose fear

Be wounded by an impartial stare

So, in your false frame

Is it vanity

That lingers over memory

Where pomp and circumstance

And all pride eventually

Is pricked

Sweet Nothing

Hampton Ferry

Mist rising like silk

Disturbed by a murmur

Over cold water laid flat

By silence

Before morning shakes it all and,

Our voices breathe warmth

On words that float away

 

The chill stillness

Will evaporate

As we ruffle the shadows

On diffident souls

Whose pathways remain

But the moment has gone

 

The silk sunk by whimsy

Is a memory that whispers

Soft nothings in the mind

As time collapses on the day

For us to rise and shine

Above it all