on time

couldn't leave you nor
take you home, so I left you
standing on pavement

~

n.b. Sometimes Life is too short.

p.s. The bottle was just there this morning, honest!

CLP 27/07/2022

on paper

WANTED: space to live
to whom does this all belong?
who is it decides?

~

n.b. Land and property is the debate we need to have.

CLP 10/06/2022

Aisling of the millpond

unseasonable warmth
petite clouds
white buds pinned to infinite blue
fine grass blades grass by the millpond
prick my pale winter skin
my flat weight crumples daisies
in cool shade
of the willow’s weeping

tumble of the waterwheel
low hum of bumble bees

chiffchaff

chiffchaff

chiffchaff

with eyes closed I see all
the birds I hear
from within this sonorous wall
soft notes
a woman’s song

so tired
so tired
so tired

my head so heavy it cannot turn
my eyelids stuck down by pinks and blues
my arms so heavy they will not move
my legs feel bound they cannot run
my voice clasped tight within my throat
I hear her singing

she sings of lilac
yet to bloom

she sings of lambs
not yet sprung

she sings of hedgerows
nestlings yet to fledge

she sings of the stream
yet to flood

she sings of oak
still to leaf

she sings of the summer
yet to burn

she sings of two lovers
yet to meet

she sings of harvest
we’ve yet to reap

she sings of apples
we’ll collect

she sings of mists
that will rise from dew

she sings of the plough
that will tear the earth

she sings of crows
that will draw in the night

she sings of frost
that will veil the soil

she sings of the fireplace
as autumn leaves

so tired
so tired
so tired

slowly I wake
remembering
how far I must go
before I finally reach
my home

~

n.b. NaPoWriMo 2022 Day Twenty-five prompt: write an aisling.

CLP 25/04/2022

on time

vomitorium
expels people into street
return home to what?

~

CLP 10/02/2022

on home

accumulation
utensils and memories
comfort, food, some dust

~

CLP. 04/12/2021

August viii

crisp sun sharp blue heat

this southern sky long since missed

now untouchable

~

CLP 14/08/2021

Dream #21

heavy rain’s half-time shuffle on the roof

mixes with the jazz ostinato beat

of towering street lamps flicking by

wheels slip over pools along the carriageway

sheets of spray from trucks misting view

red rear lights, pairs of dazzling white

approach, recede

dashboard indicators green

there’s a song replaying on the radio

today becomes yesterday

00:00

as soon as tomorrow becomes now

vehicles stretch apart, further apart, disappear

then this is the last one tracing the road

deep into the city’s orange glow

pointless waiting at crossroads for change

illuminated arrows pointing home

weighed down by the return of gravity

I step through the door

the post on the hall floor

dates how long I’ve been away

a web loose-hanging at the window

holds small black silk bundles

where the spider’s been making hay

~

CLP 18/06/2021

On Water XLI

as safe as houses

riding out life’s peaks and troughs

rowing with the flow

~

CLP 18/05/2021

L3 (Day 30): Betula Pendula

Along with buddleja, the silver birch, (betula pendula) is often the first tree to set down roots and become established in the most unlikely situations. It grows fast and its white bark seems to split under the stress of holding the slender trunk together as it shoots up. It quickly becomes a tree of ornamental interest, with its beautifully shaped, serrated leaves, that turn from soft green to shimmering autumn gold before being shed.

Its adaptability and aesthetic appeal makes it an attractive specimen to plant when landscaping newly developed building plots in temperate climates.

Even a tree so slight in appearance brings a sense of permanence to a location. It breaks up the urban landscape, provides colour and natural shade in summer. Its leaves play with the light, like the sea, they dance to the vicissitudes of the weather and in winter their absence allows what light and warmth there is to pass through.

In contrast I sense that I have lived my recent years as if I am a tumbleweed.

Wikipedia states: A tumbleweed is a structural part of the above-ground anatomy of a number of species of plants, a diaspore that, once it is mature and dry, detaches from its root or stem, and rolls due to the force of the wind.

This windblown existence is how the plant distributes its seed and reproduces. I do not see any correlation between my life and this aspect of the tumbleweed life cycle, but the detachment at the point of ‘maturity’, the hollowed out centre and endless shifting on the breath of a breeze is me and this cannot continue.

For a wanderer like me, the idea of being able to adjust and settle and make a home is to be respected, but is it possible? Can a tumbleweed become a silver birch?

~

CLP 04/02/2021

On Memory xi

Nothing could stop us

when we let the music play

danced on ’til we dropped

~

CLP 14/01/2021