The momentum of the day
Pulsates
With the rhythmic ticking
Of the huge clock,
Big Ben strikes thrice
With sonorous depth.
The mass crowds seethe below,
In columns,
Rushing this way and that,
Intent on their purposeful
Business of the day.

In Hyde Park, beneath the shade
Of the massive oaks
And London plane trees,
In splashes
Of afternoon sun,
The pigeons flock,
Squabbling
Over scattered crumbs.

Crumbs dispersed
By the old, grey haired
Woman.
Her day,
Singular,
Her pleasures,
Few,
The hem of her dress
Frayed,
Her coat,
Worn.
.

Alone
And unseen,
By the teeming crowd,
Standing there
Amid the noisy pigeons.
Intent,
Her singularity,
Her isolation,
Complete….
Despite
The clamor and momentum
Of the busy
English day.

M.
Foxglove@Taranaki,NZ.
15 July 2022

Fickle the temperament
Fickle the change
In the far South land
Where wild West winds rage.
One minute quiescence
The next falling snow
Then hot melting asphalt
Burning toes as you go.
Fickle the changes
Best that you plan
For four seasons per day
As well as you can.

Easterly is blowing hard
Raking over land
Flattening the Western waves
As only East wind can,
Shoreline denuded
Black rock exposed
Sea foam extruded
On windlanes, imposed.
Kinda feels unnatural,
Kinda feels unreal,
Suspect the **** solstice
Encroaches to steal.

Late sun’s reflection
Mirrored off sea
From elevated viewpoint’s
Glare blinding me
Brass hard refraction
Now blacking out light
Reminded lock chickens
Securely for night.
For East turns to South East
Surmounting to gale,
Destruction of forestry’s
Shredding with hail.

Such are the ways
Of this far South land
Where climatic moods
Impose, as they can.
Where the flavors extreme
Sweep enticement aside
As the promise of youth
Swops a hag for a bride.
Such are the ways
Of this ****** South land
Where you savor each moment
Indeed, whilst you can.

M.
11 August 2022
Mid winter New Zealand.

It was sundown
The sun had just set
The moon was out
A large white ball on the horizon
It almost looked surreal
Just hanging there
As if on a thread
Against a gray blue backdrop
Clouds painted the sky
Fluffy and white
With two openings
From which white bands of light shone down
It’s as if they came from heaven
Natures art
From the master
Of everything

To no fault of my own, the little I own
To the words that ask me to conform.
I feel so alone—in the deep chasms of a petrified soul.

An open door, shut by a closed mind to make a move.
Unwillingness of that to do.

Oh what a world to live in.
Searching, always seeking; in the depths be,
Of a tempestuous sea. I still can’t swim.

So comes that sinking feeling again. I’m sinking in
Deepest thought to the very END. My always sinking
HEAD. Especially when pride gave you a big head.

To have someone who can turn
my coal into gold
is far more than an alchemist
it is a precious presence
of immeasurable value.