fog

 fog

the bone ache

behind you ~ always behind you

the fog ache

the time ache

slowly 

  carrying 

    the turning

the ache that follows

  the bone ache

    in the fog

      that says

what else is there

in the sunlight the bright shadows cross the red wall

dylan’s writing shed

 dylan’s writing shed

was it then and was it just there

that he saw the colour of saying

and in its saying laid the windless nights

wrenched the candle’s songs 

down the laboured layers of his poems 

flooding estuarine 

saturnine watered

beer-soaked

milky-breaded to sleep

was it just for us that he wrought alone

i thought the thought 

that he might have done

old to autumn

 old to autumn

slow in its long running 

this storm

this black and blue autumn

its anticyclones of leaves 

rising smokeless 

high along a squall’s running

blowing through the field’s hair

defoliated in the whipping of a silver birch

  gerry and the pacemakers on the radio

weeping the long shadows of a feeling

that we have all been here before 

the music of the leaves running 

in the wind’s pursuit

the tutu of the fig leaves dancing

sunshine upon the closing of eyes as

the day’s tenure slips through our fingers 

a time that was never destined to persist 

or to ever desist in the melancholy 

of a long walk home

waving not drowning

 waving not drowning

every time i see a photograph of a wave i want to dive under it

to surface in a spinning look back to a far shore

to swim in the uncertainty 

to question my sanity

or should that be salinity 

for humour is a raft

gasping a laugh and not a tremor

the sky a lift and not a sodden blanket

the rain an exhilarating sting

not the pressure of a day going wrong

striding 

push after push through the surf drag

drag drag dragging back in the undertow of leaving

of striding eye ward sand ward home ward

of a breath so big that the whole world waits

for my resurrection as the waters break

the drying sand drawn in seaweed reds and greens

and reds in eyes closed under a towelled sun’s standing 

the long look back at the question

was i there was i really in there in that maelstrom 

that rebirth never changes in exhilaration 

that painting of a wave 

there on the wall

barely captures the wave’s personality

but it hangs mine every time 

and every time i return to being alive 

if only just hanging on to the mane of the white horses

in the wild stallion that is my sea

my dear writer

 my dear writer

your words

through the mincer of my mind

take on a hidden meaning

so ~ if you would be so kind

as to tune your mincer

to phase it in line with mine

and then we will be leaning 

into the wind 

some words do evince sir

if you would be so kind 

swimmingly

 swimmingly

a swimmer and her sea

that rare moment  oft repeated

that instant when ‘at one with’ is 

exactly what it says on the canvas

the clichéd flow of paint

into mixed with

the clichéd flow of tide

expressed in a laugh as wide and

as enchanting in its exuberance 

as to appear as unbelievable

as ecstasy is illusive

but there it is captured by the artist 

and swimmingly so 

they will splash

leave it on the catch in case the cat

 leave it on the catch in case the cat

leave it on the catch in case the cat

leave it on the catch 

leave it on the catch 

leave it on the catch in case the cat