22 July 2016

Brixham Railway Station - closed in May 1963




            


                            we are such stuff …

                                they were good days
                               days of hitch-hiking
                                days of soul surfing
                            looking for nothing much
                                         and
                      laughing when we found it

                             we’d sit on the plinth of the statue
                                     there by the harbour
                        surrounded by seagulls and holidaymakers
                               the sounds of endless summers

                       i guess we spoke of this and that
                                                of
                           long rides on starless nights
                                  new friends
                                 old friends
                                   but also
                    the hierarchy of sleeping spots
                                      beaches
                                   old houses
                                    cliff tops
                                     castles
                                        and
                           wooded clearings
  i remember sleeping in a disused railway station
                           full of silent noise
                made by trains going nowhere
                                 and
                         coming back

                                   but i held my tongue
            (no easy trick when drinking cider from a flagon)
                              listened to their boasts
                    of dossing in  empty hotels
                               ww2 gun emplacements
                                          and a dozen other dens
                                                  then i saw my truth
                                 smiled like a poker-playing hustler
                                laid my card on an imaginary table
                                                     me
                                                  i said
                                     i slept in a metaphor
                             wrapped in invisible steam

                                      …………………………



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20 June 2016

Sonnet





                            There Comes A Time 

               There comes a time when one must speak of love,
               That moment when the truth is realised,
                When metaphor lies maimed beside the road,
                Outplayed by lips and just one soft caress.
                Of course the world spins on as best it can,
                And makes its way between the potent stars,
                Its journey meaning nothing to a heart
               Tied to an orbit ‘round a mystic smile.
                Enjoy those walks to nowhere (and then back);
               The tapestries of sunsets on the clouds;
               Or simply sit and watch the burning logs
               Admire their echoes in each other's eyes.

               Then comes the time, that sudden whispered choice,
               When love must speak by signs and hold its voice.

                                        ……………………………………..


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06 June 2016

cotton grass june 2016

26 May 2016



                          postbox  and primroses


                                                             if i were to write you a letter
                                                               this is where i would post it  -
                                                           an unassuming incognito box

                                                                        perhaps
                                                           on a late spring day
                                      i would choose to walk the necessary mile
                                         sharing a little time with wild flowers
                                     carpeting the verges of the winding lane
                                                              and
                                         nodding to me as a kindred spirit
                                       
                                                             or
                                           take a wet autumn day
                                      i’d drive those same curves
                                      letting the wipers compete
                                              with a slow blues

                                                  pausing

                                    i would leave the car
                                  clutching the envelope
                               seeing it spotted with rain          
    (a little taste of here making the journey to someplace else)

                     enjoying the final act of setting free the words


                                                times change
                                             seasons change
                                      add snow or scorching sun
                                      the way is much the same

                                                     but
                                                    now
                                        i seldom use a pen
                                     or trouble the mailman
                                                   yet
                                          still i write
                               inside my ageing head
                 minutiae of moments gone and yet to be
                                              and
                                feel the need to share
                                    all that i would say…

                          if i were to write you a letter

              …………………………………………………………………….
                                
                       


                      


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08 May 2016

Bookmarks


                               
                                    book marks


                       in days gone by wild flowers were infinite
                       it was deemed ok to pick them
                    take a little keepsake to brighten a room

                        the alternative was to press flowers
                carefully arrange the petals inside an open book
                                                   then
             close it and weigh it down with another volume or three
                                               next
                                   came the hard part
                        leave it for days weeks eternities

                                           eventually
                               it could be rediscovered
                                a flat and fragile beauty
                                      an aide-memoire
                                  to keep behind glass
                                                or
                                  a simple poignant gift
                           to place inside a letter to a love

                                         of course
                          we are fallible and forgetful
                                          sometimes
         the books (complete with bloom) would be re-shelved

                                when my mother died
                          i kept a few of her old books
     years ago i  browsed through an ancient work on butterflies
                                  beautiful in itself
                                            but
                                    made more so
            by the discovery of three pressed violets hidden within
                       a sudden taste of spring from yesterday
                              to lighten my mood
               let sadness turn to welcome melancholy

                                             nowadays
                we leave these petalled promises alone
                  let celandine anemone and sorrel stay

          “take only pictures and leave only footprints”
                                    
                                                 but
 
                    should you wish to cherish nature’s art
                         pray press a primrose in your heart


                               …………………………………………………..


                             

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28 April 2016


                                                     
                       so many mountains …

                                                    sudden april snow
                                                led to a slow morning
                                       i watched startled daffodils
                                             played a tune or three
                                                           and
                            (in search of some now-forgotten word)
                                            surfed the dictionary
                               a good old-fashioned hard-copy tome
                             i must have been meandering through the ms
                                                              and
                                    stumbled across “monadnock”
                           an isolated hill or ridge rising above a plain
                before i could say snowflake i was in new hampshire
                                         sometime wayback
              staying in the shingled guest cabin of friends of friends
                  all night i lay awake listening to pine-cones or critters
                             dancing falling dancing on the roof
                    in the early morning mist i stood by the door
                                looking at a new landscape
                                                        and
                                           mount monadnock
                     
                                                         now
                                              a few hours later
                                            the snow has gone
                                       the day too is almost over
                                                leaving me
               listening to pine cones and smiling at invisible mountains
                                          courtesy of etymology

          …………………………………………………………………………………………………………
                                

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21 April 2016


                                                        sheepish expression

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