Season

Season end

the morning

 

scents of

crisp cold

 

days to

come.

 

Apples ripe

now summer’s

 

just a dream;

 

sun drenched

scenes,

 

supper under

August moon

 

wine & song;

back then

 

it seemed

that laughter’d

 

never end.

 

Here

cherry tree

 

has lost

her glow,

 

clouds

roll in:

 

for you

&  me

 

another year

plucks with

 

unknown

fingers

 

whispers

‘sleep’

 

autumn mist

&  memories.

 

 

 

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Journey

Valley twists

to forest

 

river fleuve

green carapace

 

silent.

 

Drop down

to Paris basin

 

fat plough

tills dry

 

soil in

late August

 

light.

 

Light coats

sward

 

beneath

huge Quixotic

 

windmills

hands held

 

to heaven.

 

Crest of the hill

falls away

 

sea beneath

‘falaise’

 

such a tongue

tied word

 

to play

with.

 

Calais,

seagulls

 

whirl & mob

begging for

 

tourist

crumbs

 

like the

camp,

 

barely glimpsed

through iron

 

fence, ring

roading ’them’

 

from ‘us’

as if

 

indifference

renders

 

invisible.

 

Sun glints

late on

 

grey green

wave:

 

I am afloat

in all of this,

 

genuflect

returning.

 

 

 

 

Dordogne August 7th

 

 

Dawn arrives,

stiff breeze,

 

growling of the

traffic

 

old olive

stands sentinel:

 

beached, as I am

by fate’s fickle

 

finger.

 

Swallow’s swoop

the pool line

 

memories

creep in

 

you & I

so young,

 

the children

at our feet.

 

Did we ever

dream of

 

this?

 

Palms wave;

the house

 

sleeps,,

 

but I,

still alive

 

leap from

tangled sleep

 

to salute

how we lived

 

& loved here.

Collide

 

 

When two

lives collide:

 

the life I live

the life I left

 

behind;

 

& like the fairy

tale, it seems,

 

that I’ve been

sleeping for

 

a million years.

 

When one great

love, it died;

 

‘forever’

just a word,

 

& twenty years

a legacy

 

of children,

horses,

 

that old dream.

 

Hindsight’s

for the aged

 

reflection

one last gift;

 

when two lives

collide

 

a whirlpool

of surmise

 

which leads

to this.

 

‘Love’,

 

what did it

mean?

 

 

 

 

 

Time & tide

Time moves

like the tide

 

in my dreams

it’s yesterday,

 

I say ‘Hello’

for the first time.

 

You dance

across a room

 

so high, the ceiling

drops to meet you

 

I, with sapphires

in my eyes

 

turn & walk away,

for the first time.

 

Poems knocking

in my head

 

round & round

I wait;

 

did you ever say,

‘’I love you’’?

 

Time moves

sand & tide

 

an ebb & flow

of drama,

 

once so clear

it seems

 

I’ve lost

all answers,

 

but time & tide

& years

 

have brought

you back

 

this way,

 

calling out

my name

 

this last time.

Seaside

 

Old men walk

the sands

 

heads bent

body shrunk

 

shoulder hunched

against the wind.

 

Skaters skirt

children’s

 

scooters

 

&  the foghorn

warns of sea mist:

 

ice cream stand

hand in hand

 

the ghosts pass

safe in their

 

chosen

paradigm.

 

I’m sleeping

messages

 

from

beyond,

 

& you go on

believing

 

you’re

immortal.

Dearly departed.

 

The dead come

to call:

 

looking spritely

they bring the best

 

of themselves

stay to talk,

 

the sort of things

one says in dreams.

 

Here, immersed

in life; corroded

 

by the years,

it seems

 

that death’s

a living dream

 

a time warp

of each reality

 

the Wurlitzer turns

its own obscurity.

 

The dead come

to call: they bring

 

messages:

 

‘’write them down

don’t forget

 

you are the words

you leave behind

 

in other’s heads’’.

 

They who are

released,

 

have their new

songs,

 

not remembered

nuance,

 

nor ecliptic tune,

 

but wisdom

dearly bought

 

from passing

through

 

that final

country.

 

Sand flats

lie silver like

 

stretch marks

across the bay:

 

I think of you,

the old way

 

fondly:

neglect to call,

 

expose the  past

to spring pollen.

 

Sand underfoot

sun burns

 

light throws

leaf shadow

 

on times wall.

 

Our pocket

universe

 

has flown.

 

Birds nest;

blossom tumbles

 

spring wind’s

incoming.

 

 

Call me

 

This chill spring

takes no hostage

 

blossom hovers

on the brink

 

& every breath

is hard, rattles

 

through.

 

I’m closed

in from cold.

 

You called

again, as you

 

sometimes do,

 

& life peeled

back forty years

 

evoked us

shining new.

 

You found me

laughing, in that

 

turbo crowd:

our love a dream.

 

I remember

every charm

 

we stitched,

on our bracelet

 

of desire,

 

yet now we talk

of children,

 

grown & moved

away.

 

Your new love

cleaves to you,

 

like designer

lingerie,

 

& I fly free

as I always

 

promised to;

 

waiting for

sun’s molten

 

heart to

heal me.

 

.

Paul Seymour

There’s an ‘absence’

in the air

 

As if a puff

of sky has

 

skipped a beat,

swallowed a rainbow.

 

If memory is all

that’s left then

 

‘moment’ matters.

 

Sunlight on your hair

your human grace

 

that filled our hearts;

 

there’s ‘absence’

in the world today:

 

this spinning globe

of blue has broken

 

you:

 

I used to wonder

‘why’?

 

That mystery’s

now clear

 

we hold the key

as infinity

 

draws near

 

yet I didn’t hear

you going.