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The blue, blue eyes peer toward you
Never again a conscious decision
To stay over, can be taken lightly
Your life is changed
Responsibility reverbs around your brain
A parent, can I be?
The cot and tiny clothes
Confirm a positive

No child is the same and your text book planning
Is already looking like a farce
Taking the governments view
Max Hale Dec 2020
Silver birch and holly tree
Along the path I walk
Woodland curtain
Bringing cool elements to mind

Squelchy footprints and ice cold wind
Cutting through the trees
Silence of the woods brings peace
Except for the chatter of the crows

I see noone but imagine souls
Of long-gone folk not far away
Hiding, hiding
I quicken my step, yet the paths
Incline keeps my breathing steady but deep

My fingers start to numb in my gloves
A typical feeling as the temperature
Hits just above freezing

I shiver but maintain my step
Removing my gloves
Thrusting my hands
Deep into my pockets,

The light is failing now
Winter solstice only a week away
I feel alone yet strangely
The wood seems full of people.

My imagination running wild.
Turning back as the path ends I realise
How the sunlight has gone
Twilight wraps its grey fingers around me.
Max Hale Jun 2020
Two small boys played on the waste ground
It was midsummer and the grass was in its golden glory
Dry and straw like they werd
Catching grasshoppers in the long grass
The older boy, a confident red hairded bespectacled lad
Gave advice to the younger one, 'keep your hands cupped, you'll catch one then'
The hot  the underlying concrete
The Bombies was a a patch of grass and the remains of buildings still uncleared after the second world war.
'Lets get home now' the red head suggested as they wandered still laughing back to his house not 50 metres away  down the hill.
Summer holidays spent together on the Bombies or playing cricket
Max Hale Jun 2020
Are you the type of person
Preferring to be under a roof
Or wandering in the garden
Or galloping out on the hoof

Are you desperate to escape
To the sunshine
The beach or leafy glade
Or sitting on the sofa
Drinking whisky and lemonade

Do you love to look out the window
But pleased to be warm inside
When others are walking in wellies
And you are safe in the dry

Is your dream to have a posh bedroom
A shower and toilet ensuite
Or prefer to be on a mountain
With long grass round your feet

Is your pleasure the feel of the spray
When waves break on the rocks
Or the smell of bread in the oven
As you stand in your joggers and socks

Do you like to get up in the morning
And put on your running kit
Escape to the footpaths or roadways
Or sit on the sofa and knit

I expect the thought of a bike ride
Would not be everyone's thing
When theres chance to go to the bathroom
To stand in the shower and sing

The difference from indoor to outdoor
Shows each of us as unique
In the kitchen or in the garden
In the chair or up the creek

Some of us like to be walking
Or leaping over a gate
The wind and the rain don't deter us
Arriving home quite late

While some prefer the safety
Of the rooms within the house
Things in the warmth of the homestead
Hiding away like a mouse.

In truth the split isn't easy
From indoor to outdoor you see
The weather decides for it mostly
Unless you are a ***** like me!
Thoughts during a lockdown
Max Hale Feb 2020
Salty spray ever dripping, the months of winter merge
Black tarmac usually so robust,
Pressured by evil winds of middle earth
Boring similarity where days glide by
Watched with pale faces in despair
Wet weather conditions fail the promise of new life
Flooding events, desperate for relief wash over
Where bright, white snow might be welcome
Yet, still the greasy mud clogs our footpaths
Making any sort of walking a physical impracticality
The greyness clouding our windows
Encourages little incentive to explore outside
Spring flowers resting within their bud in the cold earth
Reluctant and selfish to break through sodden mud
Before they come and surprise us with welcome colour
Giving respite within this desperate monochrome landscape.
Max Hale Feb 2020
My long-term friend keeps faith
The binding elements rooted in school days
Mean our understanding goes deeply into the crust
Of this beautiful earth.
Distance is far but nearer am I to him
Than my neighbour who makes no time to chat
She creates bad feeling and thinks not of simple humanity
My friend has soul and we measure our feelings with
Similar units, ounces of this and feet of that
The memories of which link us to transitional events today
I can remember us as boys
Laughing as drains with no intention
To stop to listen to others.
Max Hale Jan 2020
The reality of moving creeps over
Like a moorland mist
It promises a wonderful day at the end
But now fogs our vision and our thoughts
Planning is futile as the rescue party
Has other ideas, on time and importance
Each footstep feels heavy.
The light is dim and those guiding
Are studying a different map.
Destination certain but not the route
The days tick by and mist clears in places then comes down far worse than before
The energy travelling seems harder
As the hidden gateways have lost keys
To unpick is pointless and puzzling
If you're lucky your resolve pays off as the moorland's beauty is revealed on the horizon.
Suddenly your heart is lifted as the final mile is in sight. Then you twist your ankle and rest is required.
The journey amongst the cruel mist is challenging as the cold clammy fingers try to strangle you.
Reaching the end is filled with hurdles as the time is inflicted upon you. Carrying your load is hardest as the fine weather reverts to cloud and rain.
Shelter is at last with you but the stairway up is steep and winding.
Our .moving suffering felt just like this
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