I wake all of a sudden in the dark.
Sunday morning. Soon I’ll get
to work and put my hands on wood, saw
and glue. I lie blinking into
dusty black and hear outside
rushes of plummeting rain hammering
windows, tiles, freshening surfaces
like when lying half awake
heavy drops drip and splash
meeting and eventually running
downhill into trickle, river, sea.
Mortise and tenon include, uphold
and I join water roaring forwards
back into a dream of night.
The trick, it seems, is to sleep like an angel
then ask Mum to go onto Youtube
in the blue dining room where
sun peeps through curtains.
Still in pyjamas, eat brown toast,
surfing for musicals, like Oliver - the boy
who never lied or cheated. On the news
three Down’s children will be terminated today.
One of those things
- the future in a dream.
I sit drinking cappuccino,
dawn rises amber and I
imagine the liquid
all gone.
An hour stretches
from milk to empty cup;
this day, week and year, this life
until my coffee drains
the past into a dream.
One of those things.
Open a blind and see what we find;
no worries on what might be lurking behind.
Windows’ wide open, nothing large
will barge us on down if we stand steady,
arms out ready, feet on the ground.
Peep round this wall, nothing will fall
if we play at wizards, walking tall,
dazzling and laughing, wholesome and bright,
igniting a fire on a skittering cloud
and dancing abroad with balance and poise.
Any true voice sings along with the bass
when a melody melts in its time and its place;
we sing all together, harmony strong,
and out from beyond a phenomenal birth
a sounding of earth will resonate through.
So you?
Stranger, you stranger, with every click of the clock,
will you stay with me, now
now and and now
until my little song of life is sung?
Matt and Martha, holding hands on the seashore, steal
a kiss and walk away, defying universal
law and tides, new moon and cause-effect.
Recalcitrant, a higher tide cuts
them off with a lunging silver hiss.
Matt is there, Martha’s there: reaching
water, running feet, waving hands, their cries
for help come unrestrained, again, again.
Who know the rest; when sea as teacher surges
up at regular folk, like you and me, in love?
Years don’t count when you’re labeled ‘Down’s’
I’ll always be seen as less than nine
-this year, last year- so be at ease
when two wise eyes begin to crease;
keep your compassion or little frowns
and play for hearts - yours and mine!
I won’t get older even when
the classic ages of man appear:
I’m an infant dressed up as a man
loving dancing - loving friends
and although I’m tentative –loud- unclear
and hating darkness - I’ll be a youngster at my very end.
I decide to build a fire
and pack a rucksack
with huge, brown logs,
then medium sized twigs
and tiny kindling at its top.
When I tip it out
a little spark gets ready to fly
and could catch-on, ignite
if you and I can meet
if I and you aren’t wet.
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