Every decision I make is pushed by the ghost of my younger self and pulled by the blurry image of my future.

I held the door open
for the man who let me in
but he decided to stay
and grace us with his presence
for at least a while longer
a chance
to get to know who is
inside the armour
a putting down of the shield
hidden behind for so long
even after great personal loss
he gripped my hand
with affection rather than
hanging on for dear life
and every time I leave him
alone in his hospital bed
I feel a slice of the great loss
I very nearly experienced

I enter what I can only describe
as a waking dream
staring into the future
I see him, a hint of recognition
around his eyes
grey hair, no,  more silver
like the light has brought it
alive
far wiser than me
more forgiving
I realise that for all
my chasing
hunting the sunbeam
it has always been there
in the landscape, captured
by my photographic obsession
it never left me
I have always been a part of that light
and my future self
has been struck
ignited
like a lightening bolt

it's late August
the roads are still quiet
while a workforce
bronze in European sun
and children
sleep till noon on seemingly
endless summer holidays
staving off the winter blues
just around the corner
with Christmas decorations
already in the shops
the big push to do it all again
bigger and better than last year
is on
but today I am content
in this moment
almost
just almost
happy to drive to work

I want to lose so much weight
even my own phone won't recognise me

Henry Moore, the sculptor
has in his kitchen an original
Picasso
on the wall above the fridge
so every time he made a cuppa
he was reminded of his friend
not a fancy canvas in a frame
but a drawing on A4 sketch pad page
you can imagine the pair of them
discussing art and Henry giving
some small token to Pablo
of his work
and saying you know you should
paint some blue cows
it'll be good for you
you can invent the Emperor's new clothes
as often as you want
if you're a genius
and they would laugh over a glass
of whisky
Pablo went on to give life, of sorts
to his blue cows
oh, and I used to deliver whisky
to Henry Moore's house

sat on a park bench at noon
he dressed early charity shop
other people had already made
his fashion decisions for him
cast aside like they cast aside
his son, his visits less and less
frequent now, his name is
uttered as a mere whisper
except in anger and in war
he has less strength than when
faith supported his mental health
shouted from the fortress pulpit,
blending in on the seedy side
of life where the real people are
when asked about the second
coming, he said I gave you all
free will and look what you did
tell me, would you send your
only son to a God forsaken
place like this AGAIN.