Marking time

You will be seen shortly

 

If you could look at old photographs

for the rest of your life would you be sad,

not knowing what the future might have in store,

unwilling to wait for it

 

Deep voiced chatter below from the young men

who were boys not so long ago – unaware

that Dad is in his garret going stale

trapped in their expelled air

 

Above an aeroplane drones against heaven

sketching time, spreading dreams, reminding me

of the past

Of how elastic time can be. Except that it has stopped

 

The spring in the step of the man in that old picture

has uncoiled – it lays flat – lacks – kinetic energy

lives on in the losses of the past

Moribund. No better word for it.

 

Now people go out into the street to worship

care workers

clap and cheer to show solidarity against a single

malevolent cell

 

The wait goes on. The future stalled

Their voices below rumble on unaware of the past

because they live in hope, inviting the future to ‘come on in’

while my hair is grey, extinguished, so even pixels concur

 

This lockdown may become a permanent thing

I feel it’s characteristic embrace

A painless drowning – ennui

And ask again, why has it always been this way?

Glimpse ( one of many )

Glimpse. Pic for poem.

 

in space, in time, a caught moment

that locus

between now and sometime later can be playful

yet the gaps lengthen and splice

into the inevitability of unfolding time

that ineluctable luxury and it’s conflation into one’s self

This being the first of the month and by its nature

much like many others I find myself in a fold of history,

with its little bookmarks liable to be set free when shaken

from the spine of ‘my’ book. Its close weave and glue, it’s conformity

posing the question, would you choose freedom if there were a choice?

Would you have the presence of mind whilst you were in free-fall

to attach yourself to something meaningful

to make a pact with a promise and hang there in space

waiting for clarity?

Would you, could you. do you exist in partial time,

a partner in grace?

Well do I?  Will I ever fall to earth…

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

DIY

Get a grip.jpg

 

I spend my time engaged

on Home Improvements

it’s tiring work this self absorption

incessant, monotonous and repetitive

and if I’m honest, for all the huff and puff

I’ve botched it

I am not polished or buffed

or what my son would call ‘hench’

I’m grey and lined and display all the hallmarks

that come with age

Will this disappointment  turn eventually to fear?

I am rust on the smooth haft of a padlock

it’s sheen a parody of atomic numbers

that emit pulses – half lives – I’ll take them

let me glow

I just need a minute to be myself

I’ll put down those spanners and that wrench

I’ll be less morbid

I’ll sparkle

just before

I put all the tools away

whispers

whispers. pic

 

the voice is

a stretch

a cord, a line

not taut it spans time

it is a lament

unfolding from the quay

a ship’s hawser, thick fibres worn

uncoiling under pressure

an umbilical cord still intact

calling soft murmurs that echo

in the cave of a living history

and metaphors are all we have

for loss

the voice is

a cord, a line

a semblance of everything

that was ever mine

lost in darkness

even lost in smiles

the learned lies

the unnecessary loss

and grief

burning spires, artefacts

rust on beauty

and the death of stars

which has all been the daily news

on a loop that is

my loop and

the voice is

a stretch

a cord, a line

one bright moment of hope

one bright moment of hope. pic

 

each horizon, each moment spent

a salt water kiss, another spasm riding

into the next and this fraction is all of me

my orange cup, the bubbles on the meniscus

of cooling tea

a plane droning overhead

vacuuming the air for the dust

of our ordinary lives and leaving

grounded specks and motes, dazzling

in air shot through with brilliant light as if

our dreams could be kept in quarantine

then released again in another place

refreshed from tedium and ushered into a stalled excitement

that would last, for once

before the signature of loss was dry

False premise

Time passenger

Not bitter.  Not Gone

Not Resting In Peace

Not wasted. Not forgotten

Not lost in space

The atoms I carry

Their candour. Their ignorance

Tick Box. Tick Box

Seconds out

The regimen of folding a tie. Compliance

All but forgotten now. I know

Sun dance on jewelled water

Beauty broken by complaisance

The drip away of time

Until the flood

And then the view. Obsolete

A spoil. A wasteland. A derision

I am coming to claim

My false inheritance. My legacy

Please locksmith

Cut me that key

Prepare the plaque. A eulogy

Before I am gone