love is not a vacuum
love reaches in

a hand to wipe the sweat from your face
a word of encouragement

a poem on your lips
a listening ear

a gift of laughter
to laugh at yourself.

years ago My Mam made
Me a blanket.  Her fingers
wrought realisation from
the present,       & I sit
beneath That every day.

I imagine burning It     ,
corner to corner, to a
web of sparking reality;
a web of every    little
two-headed         Lamb.

I read It, I cry&read It
again, become fraught
with unbecoming. every
Lamb sees twice as many
stars, &so I see it too.

this morning I sought
the centre,    turned one
million holes        to one,
& channelled everything
to   My own experience.

I find Myself
  in Him, in the
    way I say
   "I like this."
I find Myself
         becoming
like the lapping
yearsome waves.

He is someone
    it's worth being,
My always there,
  My mate.    
                   & I
listen to His music
  & tap the way He
    always has.

it is something
     to find some
white on me; the
   firstly sign
of aging.       it is
something else
    to be Him,My
old man is here.

it is said i write abstract, in time to save

your feelings. you asked me to explain,

i did so lightly. the other said no one else

dare ask.



i tell you it is a full and complicated story

that may upset.





i wrote it quickly using shape,colour,

metaphor and symbol.



was loathe to read it for i may cry.

you wish a pretty picture yet i cannot

make it.



i thank you for asking, where others

do not read.



the writing circled

where,honey &lemon
  is replacing the
flowersome air,where
the sea is not half
   as sugary as

all the little somethings
       (I want all the
  little somethings)
,but nothing & nothing
   is what I,ve found.

is relief grown
in riverbeds,where   is
  content & her litter
of reminders that,'every
thing    will be   okay?

one of My
       little somethings
,to Me,       shows I am
okay, on board&sailing
           for utopia.