We met in the rain, wet, distraught,
too short a moment ot engage,
to wrapped up to become enraptured,
too uncomfortable for comforting.
The rain created our chance meeting,
then dampened our greetings.

The bin lorry had been.
I picked up a fragment
of our neighbours lives,
litter they must have scrapped.

We do not know them.
They're always moving on.
Urban Bedouin,
with a thousand and one
domestic tales untold.

The roughness of unshaven sandstone,
dark from the morning's early growth,
jutting its chin estuarywards,
cold until lathered in the midday sun.

A platform for he who would rule
all Merseyside for an instant,
taking in deep breaths of fantasy
for his private meditation.

Like a maestro on her rostrum
she waves her arms, conducting
a symphony of clouds and sun,
synchronizing showers with sleet and snow.

Or a white witch casting her spells
on Lakeland fells and Pendle Hill,
from Morecambe Bay to Liverpool,
where slave ghosts haunt the cotton coast,
from Merseyside to Manchester,
then chants she changes over Cheshire.

She weaves her isotherms and bars
through the warp and weft of our map,
wreathing those Western Approaches,
where siren sea nymphs shimmer.

I leaned on the rail, stared through
my mental zoom and wondered.
Were ther footprints in the sand
of that island to the windward?

No sign of man. Startled cliff caves
gaped at us, seagulls dived at us,
while whales schooled us and led us away.
We passed by and the North Channel sighed.

Now it's just a floater in my eye,
a landscape's distant daub of grey-green,
a mystery mote that still returns,
but I pass by praising Gaia.

A dusty box full of paperbacks,
a cheap auction haul, an archive
of someone's memories,
old enthusiasms, enchanting
stories, exciting action yarns.

Time was too short to read them again,
more recent ones waiting attention,
unread juniors ambitious for
promotion, leaning out of bending shelves.

These dog-eared browning pages, acid etched
in someone's memory, ready to serve
again, resisting pulping or
landfilling illiterate soil.

Grandad did you used to skim stones
off the pond? Yes the very same one.
We had a champion. His
went right across the other bank.

In life, he hit a log and sank.
Eric nestled in the tall grass.
James made waves and moved on, but Tom
reached the other side and slowly dried.

And Grandad, what about you? Well,
I'm still here aren't I, hoping to
be skimming stones with you, til your
son comes along and I dry up too.