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there are a few, those who should tidy,

those who pump and clear, those who

investigate.



water beetles float their legs, paddle

the river, dimpling surface. hang on

the bridge , warming back and watch.

water men wear high visibility, while

the beetle shines black.



we have cut the paths

and planted bluebells.
alongside gestures of despair,

may communicate thought

better. or worse?


so lets  be singular

enjoy our own space,

and be friends, forever.


she says that you

cannot see some people’s souls,

perhaps we need to look harder.


there is a lot going on.
the name will be the title,
length an object.

all else is waxed and tied
as usual, making
it unusual. when i explained,
she asked why will you do
that?

because of the chained libaries,
burning books, the secrets
you see? no, I don’t
she replied.

we worked on quietly
together.
:: museum ::
i found,
perfumed , decked with
statues and sympathetic leaflets
to no avail.

i saw the people here.

studio, still, paintings.

i saw the artist there.

the museum, past
locked behind glass,
and computerised screens,
swimming in light.

i saw the man here.

the man too tall,
so they bended him wholly
to fit,
as they did the ladies waist,
to suit the time, and hat.

i saw my friends there.

the bus, crowded chatter,
a quiet place,
to watch as film

much time to think,

i saw myself there

the window steamed
reflected way, the day.

who do i see there,
today
is round, and

round  the table,

the few.



spoke in tongues

of age and wisdom.



smiled the crease

of ages.



so while all is flung apart,

we watched, waited.



we were near the sea.
crows

clack

their

platitudes.
every year, here

the yellow flags find us.

nonchalantly driving,

wondering,

how to spell that word.



looking to the next road,

you know you love,

forgetting the time

of year they come.



flat lands, yellow

with the flags, the iris,

the medieval house.



he talked about the cow,



while i remembered the first field,

filled with them.



i did not take a photograph.
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