a flat white cools
far too quickly
for prolonged enjoyment
steaming the window
above the table
where it rests
next to it
my latest trial
of literature
at times
lengthy of word
ponderous
but probing
while others
lesser
   in page number
though not
   in meaning
brief yet pointed
but always
formidable enough
in name
   or title
to impress
a wandering eye

Thin sounds, far away,

from the small strawberry fields --


inside the teapot.

there are times
when the meaning
of a word
is asked
one that
has been read
and regurgitated
used regularly
correctly adopted
as part of
an apparent
well-read
   or pretentious
vocabulary
however upon
being asked
its meaning
there is only
a blank
vacuous
addled
unable to provide
a succinct
or even literate
definition

to save face
to re-establish
the hubris
of this
abashed lexicologist
analogous alternatives
will be offered
oversimplified
synonyms
carrying a little
less gravitas
a layman's explanation
to maintain
position on his
self-congratulatory
podium

there are times
while reading
that rather
than check
the definition
     of a word
a word
which is recognised
but whose true meaning
evades me
rather than
search the illumined
pages of a dictionary
to reveal
the mysteries of
     this vital word
this word
which carries
the entire weight
of interpretation
and comprehension
for the rest
     of the sentence
     of the paragraph
     of the page
instead there is
a striving
to illicit some
understanding
vague or otherwise
from whatever context
can be applied
to those words
that remain
indifferent to
the possibility
that I might
misunderstand
it all

as they
shuffled by
she told her friend
“i always look
forward to this
time of year
when the first
tinge of yellow
touches the leaves
with the contrast
between shade
and sunshine
a comparison
of polar opposites
where a gentle breeze
can chill
or relieve
one making you
appreciate the other
once it has gone”
i couldn’t help
but take note
of her poetic words
as i surveyed
those same trees
glad to see
swaying hues
of green against
shadow-dappled green
feeling fingers
of sunlight
still breaching
filigree tree-shadows
to warm the skin
of passers-by
while overhead
a pastel blue sky
mottled with only
staccato wisps
of gentle stratus
paint the vista
leaving thoughts
of the days to come
when this spectrum
will shift
and these colours
must change

there is no order
the golden ratio is
just coincidence

there is an owl
out there
   somewhere
in the darkness
kept secret
by whispering trees
shrouded
in shadow
by leaf
and cloud
it seems
to have a question
for any
who will listen
politely
but persistently
it inquires
pausing briefly
awaiting
an answer
before asking
again
and again;
whether intended
or not
this interrogation
has infuriated
the old boy
and seemingly
every other canine
in the vicinity

i was late
through no fault of my own
at least
that's what i tell myself
just one of those occasions
where try as you might
the universe won't allow you
to leave on time
standing at the threshold
one final pat of pockets
to check i had
all that i needed
looking up
to gauge the need
for coat or umbrella
i witness
an inhumane globule
of avian faeces
viscous and creamy
in colour and consistency
exploding upon the path
two steps ahead of me
i see no sign
of the culprit
hearing only its cacophony
of enjoyment
or maybe disappointment
drifting
into the distance

I can't help but wonder what you will remember of me.
That's every man's fate, isn't it?
To become a scrap of detail that snags or escapes a stranger's memory,
Stuck in a grate in the floor where it fluttered, discarded,
Or lodged in a permanent frame, dusted off every so often
to be a reference point
or to be a defining moment.
It isn't up to us how we are remembered -
- what is a rainbow to the blind but a refreshing mist on the skin?
And that's why we obsess: we have no control,
hard as we try, contour, conceal, and coordinate.
And that never stops us from trying.
But for a moment, consider this superpower that others will never have:
You can remember them.
You can't escape yourself, but you can remember them.
Will you remember them kindly? Will distaste be tattooed in your mind?
The things that are going to happen will happen.
And we can act according to how we want to be remembered.
But we cannot change it.
But our remembrance cannot be changed either.
It's a little spiteful optimism, isn't it?