Too many gestulate but Im already down.
One day hard hitting without thought
but now I willingly break bread
with my eyes pointing down.
To imposter anybody else is a sin.
No sympathy weeping branches
a twisting wind as lore is
more likely to see the light.

I often think of stray unloved cats 
facing  God knows what
or heartless  people with something against pigeons.
I'm fearful for the floaters in my right eye
and  how  in time talking about  Seventies  rock music
will seem affected,
with sensitivity I try  not  to gander
but  convince  others of  my  right,
the  fluidity of eventually  becoming  what one is.

The blades of grass untidy over some sub saharian variety.
The cumulus  clouds are more down town
with illegal builds shimmering  in the corners.
We look back at our hopes
and belatedly realise baristas have
subverted  our national brew.
Sub let flats with strangers passing through
leaving catering oil drums outside.
Our national prerequisite  minding ones own
allows everything unknowing to go on,
including a morning benefits agency raid.
Rules and queues consigned to ailing  England

Let true conventionalism light the pathways.
Upright, always  thinking  of others,
never running a rapier  through  the artery
of true feelings.
Sometimes impervious  ideals,  unmasks the man  
by being unopen to the  gusts of  change
one  must  never  question preparedness.

The offer of  exploration
is as clear as a dusted chalk board,
fading into oblivion.
This developmental poetry  course is
turning lop sided,
who wants to record a hushed whisper,
chasm five ways into  the inner self
or recount a  colour,
with an emotional resonance.
The ghosts of the past fail to impress.
They cannot compel.
Surely the now is more pressing
not some cultivated  co-dependency

Do they value  quietude
as we do?
passing through their cul de sac
with the same red blood causing through
our veins ?
The cold stone buildings are arcane
clematis seemingly  choking.them.
A wider sentence permeates.
The nightingale squabbles with the swallow
and all is not as same it seems.
How peace was wished for
but the inhabitants  are loathed  to admit
an underlining struggle re emerges.

The home of impressionnists
skirts the perinent point.
Jagged sarecrows dance amongst silhouettes
fields scoff in ribboned light
moves  banks from their justled perch.
I sense something wrong
bravados movement always sways,
yet wider strokes almost monumental
allow the grey to merge into the  still night..