Drips land on the window sliding
down a raggedy path, splotching an uneven
trail. Undulating smears on the glass from
drying distended drops.

There’s Mrs Wilson heading
to the shops, passing old Mrs Jacobs
bent, yet in a hurry. Each pinned beneath black
umbrellas angled to the wind. Skinny frames wrapped
in spinach like old coats. Cold poker legs move
robotically on. Unaware of our malignant
disease.

Falling heavily – splash, splatter,
halts and moves again edging towards
the finish line of each extended spoke. Like me,
each nears the cliff drop.

Shortly there’ll be a puddle this side
of the sill. You have to accept the storm
is lost  and these frames lie ditched in paint,
the acrylic **** wall breach.

People say it’s a journey that old men make
tracking back to when we just reached windows
kneeling. Then moisture evaporated
waved farewell left a lace like pattern.

Now we stand distanced from the glass
reflecting on what was lost back then as
we smell that stench of wet rot. Water has
seeped beneath the frame while I’ve
been standing here misty eyed.

Again, that almost magnetic grip loosens
as the window tilts in the wind and bumps
me into touch. Crumpled I look up to the stained glass
wondering.

Stepping out of his fathers shadow a bewildered
lad of eighteen was rooted in the centre of a
banking hall room. Clipboard in hand he waited
to be told what not to do.

Custom was slow in this suburban branch, at
midday his nerves relaxed and by mid-afternoon
his demeanour - more distinct. Words flew, what a
charming young man.

At the breakfast table mum didn't mention this,
taken with fussing about the suit. His shock of
red hair an emblem of youth. She remembered
the day his bike had the balance wheels put away.

Family were confident his ability should
convey talents his teacher said he had.
Perhaps this change involved a laying on of
hands - everyone chorused he was blessed!

Dad embarrassed him praising potential and
good luck. All to be heard before his son, who
just wished his father would stop talking of a
boy hardly anyone knew.

Returning home, alone in his room, the ceiling
spun as anger whisked tastes of fear. As the
anxiety settled, he knew how to deal with
anger, fear, shame.

Once, his dad seemed so tall.
The balloon of confidence had risen again.

Sunset lit crystal blue sky softens evening
sights, easing heat swirls along deep dug
channels and birdsong drifts,

a stretch of coiled black tarmac
runs beneath not visceral pitch as
dusk approaches granular strip
edges the road,

and a beetle black crawls along, oval
shaped, creased down its back hawling,
legs like a rowing eight seeming to
dip into the strip,

as I look down there is no sense in this
movement, no goal, no refreshment, but
carrying on whatever into the night.

Stretching my kneck upwards a jet ebony
black woman walks along wreathed by mountains,
Sierra Nevada perched on her head a rare
sight in these parts,

far off coal black hills sprout a tatty covering of
green flecked tweed, ribbons of meltwater
rush down to where I stand spring still
flushing,

in the fast approaching twilight seems like
a sleeved arm lyeing on the land a tanned
knuckle of dried rock stretches out - wrinkled,
sunburnt calluses around.

All creatures share this abundance
turned from semi-desert into an oasis
by Iago and his Moores.

Forget the cosy tale
its 3 in the morning
your a street artist,
no lines, no direction

only you, and the crowd
scary huh!

not everyone walks
the stage, so make
a scene and craft
slick approval

the adrenaline
brush fluffs up dizziness
coping on your feet
take a bow, listen
applause.

Some its said have an aversion to domestic
chores. Its effect rubs away relationships,
after cleaning, slumpt in a heap I am good
for nothing.

Magazines try to advise befriending
the routine. Check in when you begin, allow
the mind to wander and reflect.

Those uneasy decions years since -
let them go. Remember it’s not
a quake. Afterall it’s only an

after shock so there shoud be
no ill effects. This bouncing around
itches my bleached flesh

on my arm pock marks glisten like a
gritty saucepan bottom. Standing at
the sink, dripping from scuttling

memories of happy events. Lassoed
by the cleaner cable I feel the rushing tug
of dust up the pipe. It wasn’t your fault a voice

shouts loud, as I watch sparrows on
the fence, whistling, at wasting energy,
complaining about moments passed.

On the radio the jingle, jangle of
Mr Tambourine Man speaks of dreams
waiting between crisp cotton.

A pinhole camera lets light fall on paper
at the back of the box, in reverse a similar
pulse occurs on internet sites. And as many
bits as in a spectrum of light.

The sensitive paper lines up a
collection of dots just as the range of
sites disperses a plethera of spots.

The cameras yawning slow and stable
effect contrasts with the internets jaw
dropping speeds. A whiplash of light and
off it zips. Sites seem to breed serving all
sorts of needs.

Professional bodies, purveyors of
knowledge, business and commercial
concerns of all manner of goods are
seldom discerned from so many.

A public outcry at the sprawling mess
and secret agendas regarding fetchers,
letchers and abusers hiding in rather
dark corners rushes a plea to regulate.

If only it were those hidden from sight
who have bad intentions, but others
are rumoured to operate at a higher
dimension.

A high pitched screech results in a critical
eye calming the discontent. Ushering in
a series of constraints. Still the fallout
persists and so we go zipping along.    

The sites that deal in personal things continue
on. You can spill the contents of your day and
friends keep coming fascinated by what
you say. It lightens the load to feel tense and
then spent.
.
And then there are those that let us
escape from work or domestic roles
to find others equally moved. Us souls
aim to improve, so reshape our lives.

Raise technical skills, welcome slaps on
the back for major or minor adjustments.
That piano of light keeps us tapping the
keys to find our flare that will light up the night.

At night signs beside the road guide us home.
A backward glance in the mirror lists the household
chores to do.

On the open road a rush of wind and
rubbed out stain seem like the remains of
a speeding car.  

Please save us from this fate. Recalls moments
stood with a music stand and violin. Joined as
one mind and body vibrating air high
treble clef. Cats eyes receive us

and keep away men in long black coats.
Although this is a local run they are
always adding roads, so you could easily
take the wrong turning.

And find yourself lost.