In Ambleside we see
the remains of a Roman fort
Though much has changed
from those times
We wonder what they saw
what kind of lives they lived
through the ticking down of breaths
from birth through ageing sickness and death

They were far from home
far from Rome
on the shore of Windermere
and we wonder
what in thunder
they were doing here
so far from home
on the shore of Windermere

There was no silver
there was no gold
but they came
and grew a little older
and then came more
boat after boat
but why
we do not know

They built a fort
from stone and wood
fit in as many
men as they could
clerks and cooks
We wonder
what they came here for
We wonder what they took

It’s Saturday
they say
so
this means we need
to behave
some way
that acknowledges
and respects
the day
unlike Mondays

Liberated slaves
free to spend
in all the stores
then bend the rules
and act wild
like a liberated child

Divert, distract
paint the town black
‘tis the day
to take care of business
be cool
and make it through
to Sunday’s forgiveness

It’s a virtual world
the one that we now
think we know
once removed reality

We see through
a series of screens
from hand-held cells
to HD screens
and every thing
in between

Who lives between
the child and the man
in the land of unfair dizziness
where one is simply
unable to rest
running a gauntlet
of tests
in tortured times
of terrible apprehension
fabricated arrogance
and insolence
not-knowing and pretension
overcompensation
for frightful fear

unknown
he comes and goes
thank christ

Unfortunately

whether we remain
in the quiet confines
of our own castle home
or whether we go out
with others
to sit down
for tea or coffee
aural torture is found
Boom boxes on four wheels
splashing sound all around
the cities
and the towns

Diesels growl
sirens howl
Swishing cars
hissing tires
Blasphemous bells
from hell

White noise is in the air
bouncing everywhere
from merry-go-rounds at county fairs
to elevators and dentist's chairs

Like lightning
silence sometimes comes around
making
a brief
but welcome break
in a surreal storm
of surround sound

The skittering fish of my memory
refuses to be food
refuses to be used
another time

Like a shooting star
from the corner of my eye
fish fly by laughing at
my hook and line

Of course they can’t be caught
because they were never there
Memories imagined
The mind is so unfair

I was steered here
when I was sixty-three
to
The Land Of The Lakes

The hills and fells
disinterest me
a lovely lake
however
can occasionally
catch my eye

One day I took
a wintry walk
wearing a chapeau
crunching snow
on a Windermere Jetty
jutting out into
the heart of the park
pretending
to intend
to continue
beyond the end

A memory was snapped
into a permanent place
by the capturing eye
walking by