A Better Perfection?

What was I thinking?

If I was thinking at all,

Lacking commitment, no precious passion-metal

In this fifty-winters relationship today, nor, indeed,

For some months gone: only mere disdainful disinterest,

Denial: surely the most cowardly forms of betrayal.

No fire in the blood, no iron in the rod

Where love and faith once fitted, fuelled and fulfilled.

Another week’s dull grey rains gone

Under the honest, Bedlam song bridges;

Why was I waiting, pretending indifference?

And for what?

For the gallows shadow birds to find

Paradise-bell voices, describe a better perfection?

For the right cards, for a signal in smoke or stars?

What was I thinking?

Paradise Returned

Early world-day January sun gently

Tears away low scraps of frosty fog ribbons

Washes its delightful warmth and

Fresh-as-Eden light against the

Eastern sides of garden silver birches,

Makes jewels of drips at the purple twig tips;

Feeling is tranquil, though there is work to be done.

A patient, forgiving god is near.

Without

This is a night to call on

The neglected-too-long,

Two faced god;

Distant doorways time,

Wandering with the wide-sky

As a hat, deep dark and

Glamourous with frost-pricked stars

That will refuse to disclose the

Futures only they can know.

Walking on the tireless long legs of Memory,

Carrying my weightless ghosts around

The rainbow’d edges of the friendship nation:

Territory with secrets,

Without hiding places,

Without borders.

Behind, Beneath

Behind these dark-of-January eyes,

Beneath deep-winter blues

There is – every now and again –

A space, a time,

A spark of faith

Where here is elsewhere

And distant is  such a tiny word

Dismissed with a wish

And the confidence

A journey can evoke.

Windows

Across memory’s autumn-dug, fragrant soil;

Below wheeling, squealing gulls

A sixty-some summer’s man

Limps up a rising, pot-holed track

With a bent back and a broken barrow,

Rooted to the leaf-fall, sun-bronzed skies

By a skein of light grey bonfire smoke

And the young faerie sparks that dance within it.

It’s Dark …

It is dark,

But, don’t miss the point,

Getting lighter by the day.

And don’t forget that,

If we be but brave enough,

We can raise a chorus,

Sing like honey-full bees

On glorious, bright sun days:

Amber and brown;

Rhythms of space,

Textures of time:

Volume without menace,

Power sans anger.