If you need more, the car will show the way
On road we go or land not known to say
Land not known to say
Sit back and chill the seed is now a tree
The hills sweep low, a bell does ring for thee
A bell does ring for thee
We park not far, to walk the rest on grass
The wood has grown all green now hides the pass
Now hides the pass
A scent of sea or salt to sand and blue
We track a stream, you know it leads us through
Leads us through
On chalk our steps drift dust, to air and light
The house we know is dark and stands on white
Stands on white
A gate is done the beach at last in view
With thoughts we sit, no words I say to you
No words I say to you
No crowd will come, we share this space alone
No time is lost the rocks become your throne
Become your throne
We wave goodbye it’s time to let you be
I leave you here, the place you love found me
The place you love found me
If the plug ever gets pulled
on the internet and the
world wide web collapses
into a silk thread mess
how will we tell the weather?
We’ll look out through our windows
there every morning
we’ll eye the sky
Everyone will learn about clouds again
understand what the hues of red
orange and purple mean
the breeze and the rain
the behaviour of birds
animals and insects
it’ll all become clear and we’ll
feel more connected than ever before
I looked through the albums
of the Beatles recently,
studied track listings
to unfamiliar tunes.
Most of the little known songs
are pretty seriously
mediocre, in comparison
to the ones known well.
It’s true of the Stones too,
when you look.
Bowie and ABBA.
In actual fact,
it’s true of nearly every band
Or writer, poet, painter, actor,
There’s a whole lot more rubbish
out there they did,
than the good stuff.
This probably comes as no surprise
Only eighteen months.
I knew it was not two years.
Since around spring,
Felt much better.
Confidence has grown,
such instances come my way
only eighteen months ago.
Who, sits in their car
outside a building,
sounding the car horn three times?
Who, after failure to raise a response,
sounds the horn
three more times,
the duration of each blast stretched out three times longer
than the original three?
Who the hell is a “morning person”?
Is it a trait passed down the line
through the genes?
They who wake up,
A character from folklore,
caught up –
bound in the bedclothes,
My eyes hurt by the light,
can’t read the time,
don’t know if I’m late or early.
Sway into walls
take rest against door frames,
battle my way to the bathroom –
an epic journey.
Stumble down the stairs.
Hate, that I didn’t clean the coffee pot
the day before.
Wash, rinse, prepare.
Stand and wait.
As soon as the caffeine hits,
life begins to slowly seep back.
A treatment of the symptom,
but not the cause.
Could I change?
What would I have to do
to become a “morning person”,
rather than the “morning person