Bloomsbury Fall

Today I strolled

in footsteps

of T.S. Eliot’s orbit

of Russell Square.

Leaves were falling

and trees apparently

settling for a bitter pill;

their frosty pixilation.

But a warm sun was out.

I kicked waves forward

to a waiting underground voice

‘This train will stop at Morden.’

Yorkshire Traveler

A grand job,

cheers for that

gluten free

Yorkshire pud.

I learnt on t’cruise

a bloke’s repute

is a fractal

of one’s food.

IF (after Kipling)

If the world was how-less,

instinct would be master.

If the world was why-less,

motive would be clearer.

If the world was who-less,

freedom would be simpler.

If the worlds was when-less,

only now would matter.

If the world was where-less,

self would be the fixer.

If the world was what-less,

all would be a wonder.

Go Fish

At this time of year countless little fish

swim in shallows of the Aegean sea,

newly born there, quick and flickering

cutting slick water under bright sunshine.

Incoming and outgoing waves sensate

and slowly pebbles turn to integrate.

Nearby spots of flotsam move more softly

but, best of all, darting, diverting black fish

seeming to dance in their idealism,

safe and quick, inquisitive.

I’ve seen them before and caught their spell

but this time I look more closely, turning

eyeballs in tandem with an alien

environment that I’ll never discern.

And I see not single fish but, always,

there are two fish – a black darter and a

white partner, arcing effortlessly as one;

nimble and absolute, together.

They are mating, surely, invertebrates,

black and white, peace and space, united.

I show them to my wife as a miracle,

duck even closer, then step away,

stand back.

Waves turn. Like a perceptual puzzle,

two fish, lively, diverge, turn back to truth

and become one tiny silver creature

making its way alone in the ocean;

an explorer sucking life, mouth open,

eyes awake; this way, that way, any-way,

projecting black shadow from a bright star

onto our waiting earth.

The Gate

When the barrier stays down

a micro phonic voice

stutters ‘I can’t see you on my screen,

what’s the name again?’

There’s no real need to panic

even though panic’s a bodily instinct;

it’s more a need to wonder, be curious

about that continuing need to breathe

and that you really deserve to live

a little longer, to feel butterflies

in the gut and be tickled

for a while, licking lips,

coldly sensing fresh air,

one breath, next step, blinking.

Life

In sea shallows, I slope a toe

and feel that first shock

of electricity

when a little wave arises.

I take a step ahead now,

numb to the shinbone,

anticipating

what to do next. To fight

for consciousness,

flee into apathy,

wait?

Skip ahead and a new wave catches

thighs - bring it on -

and another forward-move

until a boomer whacks my chest

to almost a topple

of torso and water.

I keep walking

beyond mindful tricks

of cold and danger

to go again

another time,

another push

knowing that heart is red and strong

with muscles a-tightening

ready to leap

and be lifted,

surrender

and swim.

You may see your children regularly

I leave you in the evening,

my heart a running beat;

you turn yourself away from me

devising new pursuits

and friendships for the seeking,

a spell to cast by reaching;

my cells are shrieking ‘singleton’,

your stage is somewhere new!

My answer’s in this question

‘Is there anything left to say?’

I shift myself away from you

for days and nights and days:

you’re sailing after treasure,

digging joy and leisure

along a measure and a stretch,

two weeks, away, away!