Through the depth of each night, till the dimming of days,
it’s a difficult path to the parting of ways.
For the sake of us all, for our dads and our mums,
The carers will carry the vulnerable ones.
When others step sideways, the carers come through,
to meet expectations that daunt but a few.
Intuition and patience, resilience and smiles,
They will take up the slack for the final few miles.
Upon Mow Cop, there stands a castle keep.
Close by on high my humble tent is pitched.
Soon, snug in nature’s covers lie me down to rest.
Light stays up late in May’s last restless gasp
and those who latch and lock miss this great blessing.
Close by on high my humble tent is pitched.
In night’s deep lull, there is a frosty chill,
which holds me to the earth and marks my bed,
and those who latch and lock miss this great blessing.
With morning dew I dip and rise anew,
my body fresh with hospitality,
which holds me to the earth and marks my pitch.
And Biddulph stretches morning arms aloft.
The cows stand tall to greet the coming day.
My body fresh with hospitality.
Toil beckons and I pack my tent away
and boil a kettle on my little stove.
The cows stand tall to greet the coming day.
Soon, snug in nature’s covers lie me down to rest.
Facing backwards on the train
to see the place I’ve been, again,
to meet the people facing me
whose eyes reflect what I can’t see.
The world behind is a surprise
that meets my back before my eyes,
and if I never turn around
I’ll never know what I have found.
A good idea
the coffee cup
with my name on
when ordered up;
A shame the man
upon the train
went to great lengths
to hide his name;
It would have been
a chance to meet
the friendly face
in the window seat.
I can’t be certain,
but waiting in breath-held clouds
while the sky cantankered on the knoll
I was surely petrified.
When later I fought to rise
from knees wasted in prayer
my robe caught on the buckle
of the lone soldier’s obstinate shoe.
Salt tears, searing pain
from your desperate wrench
and the high price of absolution,
hung, sharped, in the setting night.
And we will never be away, or will we?
Can we ever utter gladly,
Now we are done with this?
For the home we made together
is still reflected in reddish water.
On the table, in the pudding,
in each glass you fill and lift,
in the faces of your loved ones,
may you find two special gifts.
Underneath the pretty wrapping,
hung with baubles on the tree,
mistletoed and decked with holly,
hope is boundless, love is free.
Wishing you a warm hug Christmas,
peace and kindness real and true,
may past and present friends and family
raise your spirits – Here’s to you!
Who wouldn’t relish the pink skies
of a twilight winter drive?
Oh, for a quiet ride.
But Anxiety is a mealy-mouthed passenger:
no stuck out chin chest beating bully;
insinuating instead into the drivers seat,
she slips my gears.
Oh, for a quiet ride, but undeniably too
Vexation sits, inclined as though struck,
like a damp yeuk sandwich on the seat beside me,
puckering his lips to sip from
a plastic flask of patched up paranoia.
Oh, for a quiet ride indeed. Enough.
I swerve onto the curb, and
belt unclasped by confident denials, depress
an inbuilt ejector switch. Out they tumble,
rumbled by optimistic assertion.
Ha! In the Hollywood diversion, at last, a quiet ride,
pink skies deepening to best radish red,
conundrums left behind, nothing to remind me
of mistakes, unlucky breaks, driving west…
Okay. Apply the brakes. Get out. Slam the door.
Pick up the pieces, crank the heater,
dry their rusty tears and drive them home.
It seems we are not ready, each, to function on our own.
Surviving, and sucking last year’s fruit pastilles,
we all three, at least, appreciate the pink skies
of a twilight winter drive, but sometimes, sometimes –
Oh for a quiet ride.
That by writerly licence, turner of pages, bastion of books,
ambles into the empty library and, notepad open, takes a corner chair.
One hour passes.
Cramp prompts perambulation towards the fiction shelves,
to commune with the Abernalds and Abernathys, the Bagshawes and Baileys,
and while a further hour.
Despite nodding graciously at a couple of oblivious locals,
who rapaciously clutch the bagged imagination of Arthur C. Clarke,
only lunchtime approaches.
Sandwiched between history and psychology, consumed by mystery,
the writer eats secretly, surreptitiously sliding crumpled cling film
between dog-eared tomes.
At four, children bring giggling and in-tow mothers, who skirt
the perimeter of their once-upon-a-times; riding paperback dragons
over the broken back of the day.
As the last book closes, the resident writer gathers all thought
and prepares for another night precariously shelved, wrapped in the cover
of a contemplative manuscript.
At the shiny 8am traffic island,
two freshly employed and eager
young triangular flamingoes arrive
pressed between hardboard, balloons
on their backs announcing deals of the day.
At 5pm, they stuff pale clipped wings
back into hooded jackets and wade
away through pollutant traffic haze,
deflated balloons bobbing, filtering
disappointment through turned down beaks.
Ten fingers strive to exercise a mundane task,
enslaved by hands, their jealous masters, clasping fast
till aching knuckles buckle to the bracelet of the day.
You’d guess they’d ask (above the crack of whip) how so
that they who long to dance, are pinioned tight and must
suspend their joy for subsistence, impinged by stress.
But never did these fingers speak; suffice to know
how noble words and careful deeds and soulful breath
held checked, cut in to scintillate with dazzling display.
aplaceforpoetry 