I travelled back a mile by the canal in sunshine, sky so fresh that early hour was nourishment and I gulped-down the air. Those path-side plants are nearly at their full, I watched a bristling, bulbous stem unroll, blue dragonflies, butterfly everywhere bees in tall fragrant meadowsweet now bear their sticky loads as flowering miles unfurl.
Here were the first green fruit, cherries, apples; sycamores bunch brown-spotted keys, I led, to my last bridge – how quick the season is – thoughts of a day that caught me unprepared, slow to return in case this was the year’s best, to be no other and it was not shared.
Having moved along from prose I have been writing poems for a few years now, trying different forms - gaining and failing (see Sonnets) - trying to match mind and soul on the page: it was never going to be easy. The best writing is generally poetry, the worst too. So, we work on it.
Kick stand up at eight, two lane west to set me free Throttle through the gears, now it’s just Ester and me Relax down into the machine, the breeze blowing across my face Worry and troubles disappear, my mind is
I have witnessed your tears where autumn has grown Down into the dark deeps of your bantam eyes Final leaf was left behind when all we’re gone When Frost breeze have sing your last night’s cry Black outlined eyes of