Hey look at the colour of yon yellow rose
(the incorrigible edges of crazy plants)
rest and gaze-out from a mountain ledge
(now put on a harness, your mate is the belay)
how lyrically blowing - a lullaby
(from an ageing punk, strutting his stuff)
and a picture window onto the pond
(where a gannet plummets – spearing a fish).
Anger into joy,
fear turns into love
lifting a circle
beyond any 2D
with effort - and glory -
spiral upstairs.
stands,
sighs again,
walks down the street
saying ‘Hello!’ to new people;
bearded drunks, dancing girls, singers
with eyes in the clouds, bellies of beer and boots in the gutter;
smiles as if the whole turning world needs a twinkle
and puts his arm round those who seem slumped or crumpled,
carrying their heavy fate or load.
He walks for maybe half a mile,
working the line, stars
for eyes, teeth
for smiles, sits;
sighs.
Sunlight in the café
lightens up my latte;
I cannot eat one biscuit
without a nob of butter
but maybe I should risk it
and get on - getting fatter.
Make me up a platter
- a plate of scones and butter
with subtle smells, the earth compels
my lips and mountain belly.
I’ll gobble steak and chips here,
pie and pickle, arctic rolls
while sunlight in the café
hardens and grows cold.
