I did not

expect,

 

to meet

this way:

 

did not receive

your presence

 

as a gift,

I know

 

you are

like the wind.

 

I did not

believe

 

we’d ever

kiss;

 

instead we

 

pocket

sentences.

 

You kept me

as an option

 

a present

ready

 

to unwrap:

 

I did not

expect

 

to meet

across

 

the river

of becoming,

 

nor does

disappointment

 

paint the

day;

 

only acknowledge

the words you speak

 

are empty.

 

 

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Pegwell Bay

 

Wind: water:

bird tracks

 

triangulate;

 

pungent sludge

green, fishy;

 

dog camouflage

certain russet

 

gold of season’s

end, a new

 

Eden.

 

Far out

kite surfer

 

floats,

like an

 

angel;

 

ground heat

incubation;

 

gannets

scream

 

from

knife edge

 

nest

 

we are

undone

 

in nature’s

story.

 

 

Inhale: exhale:

heart craves

 

what can

never be;

 

& so, we live

 

throwing life

up into

 

the wild wide

blue, straining

 

as it

disappears.

 

Inhale: exhale:

& how many

 

years

 

does it take

to glimpse

 

the essence?

 

A glance,

a word,

 

across a

crowded

 

room;

 

who would

have thought

 

that ‘we’,

would survive?

 

Inhale: exhale:

drift into

 

the web

of sleep,

 

‘snap’ out

light

 

journey free,

complexity

 

at last,

vanquished.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

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.