That face that curve of neck those eyes
A tilt of feature and a look that does
Not mean to but cannot help but hold
Me helpless staring - almost daft with
Being with you
Distant in the world.

A New Moon seen through winter branches.

It's such a pain when you lose a poem on the motorway.
Near Leicester, as I recall.
(Or not)

And it was such a good opening -

Such a line

Full of simple power - lyric heart and
Earth and you...  
But now not here
Now no more.

Like friend who died with sunken eyes
I could then just see
3 weeks ago:
A curious distance from death.

The day after I could still see him,

And in 5 years time I will again
I know.

But 3 weeks?

The first thing you notice
As the clothed self starts to dissolve
Is the relaxation.
A kind of sinking into the the buoyant world
And surrender
So is in there too
But not capitulation poor and bowed
More a fizzy feel for all the
Overwhelming all
That can be
In the curve of fences
Seen from trains
And blurs of green and soft remembered walks
Of girls.

Mostly.

I have to say.

And moon and planets squirrelled through
The secret words of electrons to
The screen.


Food is all around us but we starve.

I once tried to write a poem
(or was it prose?)
About two so in love
(was it you and me?)
That they couldn't kiss because
Each time
They looked,
They smiled,
Then grinned
At each other and their all,

And just their teeth met
Click.
And they laughed
Just to be.

How did I love thee? Let me count your teeth.

I walk in from the dark and wet  
The glass door sprung to slow me.
Find a chair.
Collapse.

Am I exhausted or
Not?

I don't know.

A friend of long ago and now is dying
The shadow of his place with gulls and shops
I leave on Albert Road.  
Broken arm across his short betraying breaths
With that inevitability grin
I know so well from school and later,
As little bitter fortunes

Unfurled their flags.

I walked in through his easy door
Words floundering till whisky hits
Then:
Of course we will! Sure we will!
- We fill the months and weeks with plans
Travel to the sights he wants for him.
Boats and Locos, Houses, Friends.
The evening slews in amber liquid,
Fades in fervent words.

Morning grey.
For me the stunned drive back to work
And England's ridges higher -  home to home.

Finally Southbank - monied words.
Their voices to the ceiling reach:
A gentle civilised hubub of the saved
Bathed in culture, purpose and the careful light.

And you are back there, purposing a
Fractured night
That counts each clock chime you restored.

Oh now, by all the alleys, faces, roads
And domes of London,

Would it were not so

Not so
Not so
Not so.

And there is nothing wrong with Depression
Strange to say
It has its rhythms and
Almost
Its delights
Too.

Too heavy to raise your eyes
You stare at the world
Through the black bars
About four feet from you
Sloping down.

Leaves
And rain
A dark green world
But even through these tragic rimmed tunnels
That were eyes
I can see it's green
But it's hard too.
That leaf - the one with the rust on the left edge
In the rain.
I don't want it or I to move
From here.

Bare pad of feet on wood - he feels her warmth
Sashay in the towelling robe to sit
Before him in her simple finery,
Hair in dripping ringlets from the shower.

Across the little kitchen table eyes
Meet and know in comfortable quiet.

The tea between them steams its blessing.

A misty world is waiting for the words
She leans and looks to know his question.  
"Diamonds, dreams, or love?" he says.

A slight incline of head and hazel eyes.
Outside the quantum dance of autumn leaves,
But here is human trust that wills
A circle round them both Forever.  

"Kindly Chinese soldiers live in Cookham"
A slim hand reaches past his cup to touch
His fingers, "Don't worry - dreams do that, My Love,
And we started/ended with the third as it should be..."
And as for diamonds - well, the day will tell!"

They look their love and rise to go their ways.

The leaves dance on.