Home

Home. A poem

 

wind-tied molecules cling to a park bench

their aggregated jewels drawing colour

from soft morning light

as the dogs and their owners stroll by

oblivious mites in the bigger picture

set fair between their couches and other dreams

and so

this moment in time is just an interlude

a duty woven into the fabric of responsibility

whence in truth all moments go

absorbed into “a life”

whose fragments are the working parts

of a mosaic

the carpet upon which we tread

it’s magic threads and woven messages

all ultimately left behind the door

darkness descending with the flap

the last post resounding on the mat

and emptiness obscures everything finally

all of those things we carelessly overlooked

those messages that were always in plain sight

gone from Welcome to Good Night

Signs

 

 

Brighton Steps Collage-1

 

Walk. Don’t walk

Street furniture

The architecture of survival

I am surrounded

Guided even, if I care to look

But what is this?

A shifting arcade?

I travel in the line of beauty

Unaware that each stride

May or may not make sense

For my influence is limited

I am simply here

No podium place

No winners’ medal

Just ephemeral distance

A few aches and wrinkles

Survivors’ lines

Where passing traffic

Abraded me

Friction. That is life

And when the sign next lights

With a kind of throbbing urgency

I might even smile

Not yet safe. Not yet spent

On a watching brief

For eyes

Alert to clues