Still to shed the germane party-line,
my one  liners may have beaten you anyway,
I'm no longer hearing  your Grandfather tick tock
neither have Newcombe and  Stephanie
Now feeling sorry for your passing,
though my discursive  may be heard elsewhere.

Nostalgia for a vanished world
of  Macfisheries and the
Orange Hand boyswear store at Golders Green.
Bar Linda at the bus station
close to the record shop
with listening booths.
Those were our prize days
with au pairs Franny  and Janine
and our London memories.
As children
we never knew we had it all.
In our back garden
buried treasure - a cows bell
and delft plates.
The Jackson Five and Banana Splits,
bubble gum the preferred choice.
America so abundant on the horizon,
Pickettywitch on the radio.
playing that same old feeling
we so accordingly search for now.

Arise by any other means
scripts are for the turning.
Into the shadowlands of performance they infuse,
oblivious to the countenance thus incurred.
Silent stillness - the hush of curtains
fortitude stumbles yet remains
like any other egress  
an unpredictable profession.

What good is Victoria now?
currently on schedule
the logic of SW1 follows
the real estate of the concrete
cash cow,
office blocks turning luxuriate habitation
a new class to wade the hues
of practised entitlement
which doesn't have to be gatEd
iron will makes for  a conceriege ,
based on the accepted provision
we have been usurped
see the dark swan grow.
whose space is it now?

I was told the Isle of Wight
was like going back twenty years in time.
The Red Funnel ferry took us
to this enchanted island,
described as England in miniature.
There was this relaxed feel
of people not pushing for the burn,
extending to the mannered staff
at Osborne House,
who couldn't be more helpful
and the Waitrose counter girl
providing the creme de creme
of friendliness.
The chief steward of the ferry
lifted our spirits
I vowed to Vectis to return.

I occasionally see your marmalade  cat
and painted  stones
with  "I  love  you", dedicated to your friends,
sometimes you dispatch paper aeroplanes  to that effect,
overall your ponytails and mint teas means everything endearing
please don't  change
the  world circles  but 
your personage
continues to  be immense gift.

A breeze on Sunday morning
then gushes the rain,
under canopy of a tree
waiting for a bus,
hardly a soul around,
way before the church brigade.
I feel such weekend days serves us as being most ubiquitous,
freedom of movement
giving credit that most people are good -
flagship thoughts as clear as  Adams first steps.

How Marjorie dances
cheek by jowl,
we could never be strangers-
her face countenances
with comely candle light .
Parfait Oysters and Rose  -
a double diamond of moonlight.
Only in France's nord pas de calais
could we rejoice,
redolent in vintage Boulonge
our hearts aching for one another.

Benedict Spinoza's  contingency was
grinding optical lenses,
his oeuvre  the anatomy of the soul
turning medievalism on its head
heaven was neither ethereal or earth bound
A brave man.

Mortified he draws a blank
the modicum of kindness
wears a knowing grin,
cobwebs in the morning
jostle with fading stars.
Cold farm comfort
with buttermilk and soda bread
the Herdsman plays the waiting game.

He died in a shell of
his own making,
no runaway excuses or
afforded sorrow, to wash
his depleted crown or
balm his hand.
Sackcloth and ashes
paraded;
despatch due his rainy Sunday.

Gushing rain's a
scurrying season,
plying woe with loosened tiles,
detaching once proud roofs.
From whose past has this rain dance been arrainged ?
All we stand for is porous and howling wind,
a gambit of ill suited omens'
hectoring guise to scour
our cracked chimney pots.

The dawn chorus
breaks the silence.
A hush was my intended
understanding.
I gather not wearisomely
along this Rudderless incline,
humbled by my pursuant  thoughts.

He  pulled off a masterstroke
braiding himself to a  chair;
singing au  naturel , the  corner of the winds
picking up on the wavelets.
Pleasantries and greetings now never wear.
Grace its the time  to unwind
asking contrite  forgiveness
before hibernating,
quietly evolving.

Those sash windows rotten in their frames
the venerated better placed,
to observe the desperation
of others,
once laughed back erstwhile,
but its always the emptier pocket
that question the affordability of repairs
as the day is long,
the overgrown bramble in the parterre garden
obliterates the rectangular  lines
a vernacular happenstance
socially  trailing  backwards

It is better to bark at the moon
than let speechlessness seep  through the void.
Until the premise of the voyage is replete
can we know the cosmos
sayeth the wise on a chagrin of a day.
Clod and ash will be our bane
and only the heralded will remain,
two feet standing rather than
crawling, tantamount to recidivism.

Closing  my  eyes  behind the lens
would  be like an open book invitation,
there would be no surprises .
Only my  pre- visualization
would  uncover  the finer detail
already known - hills  and  walkways,
where  we  would tilt our  eyes -
finding a  box  of  immense  aperture
shimmering  light
that  could  not ­ possibly  be described as over exposure
but  the  truth of  the  spoken image.

A shunting echo
a movement of clanking metal,
hurrying
across the rainy track .
I knew it well,
perchance to sleep.

Where silence weaves shrouds
avarice is left in the cold,
beyond the trees and stone walls
we have finally left the crowds.
The sleeping mist lounges,
taking in our thoughts
and not even cloth ears himself
can ignore the enchantment already
whispering our vows

Raise awareness.
Thwart the detritus,
in this mindset
begin to honour resonance.
Failing to hear your inner esprit
there never be forgiveness,
the transformation to Spring
a new direction twice recurring.

An oasis of hope is vanquished by order of
a diet of worms,
pyred vitriol
stored in sunken shafts,
no tenable reason is further  expanded
nor quarter given;
hushed words turn into withered excuses.
no bells to commerate the ex officios
once held in prestige.

We have spoken about bad seed previously
even bad blood -
but only in moral terms.
Genealogy was the big hitter after all,
like marrying into maternal sided dementia,
too late to realise the Wife's Aunts were whittled one by one.
Daughters' must be
quaking what their future holds
their teenage daughters blissfully
too young to contemplate.

An instance is also running,
the prisms of Glass
are in a better, knowledgable state.
Searching for principles,
by gasping at the sarcasm.

Burgeon lane saw me blunder
many peers followed.
Augers and gestures
worked the words  uttered,
some say it grow fine
but their practices always
were the more  provident  .

Super cool Shuggie Otis,
play on Strawberry Letter 23!
I hear the waterfalls.

How your breath feels like a bract
the unfathomableness of  perceptibly,
meanwhile our exististence is as garden clippers
to sundry ladders,
in a chasm we had reason to believe,
but the leaves have long mustered hence
your yellowing hair belonging to in-nobility
often subterfuge is a refuge .

To ride along the verdant road
to seize the moment
these will be our  jocular days,
long threads of silk
bought you to the candy store,
by night we sleep on a bed of  song.
A riot blazing from my sleeves,
But alas this  little lady is already
pining for the origin of this thread
assuredly, such decisions will  be mine alone.

Have you heard the sound of sympathy?
some usher it as an sincere adage.
Others will mention the Fieldfare
and scribe Snow into that forgotten scenery.

Mrs Atkinson you have touched my refrain
I have sought to exalt your memory
and recall the passion,
only occasionally  have I  been stirred
by a resemblance of your quite sitting,
but as I have come this far
I feel a peak of perfection
that none could quite compare.