The monk chuckled to himself, He had walked back uphill to his cabin in search of his hat, Then, catching his reflection in the window, And seeing the hat on his head, He returned to the downward track Only to hear the wind remark: “You try to control your thoughts…

Foundations He stood up, leant against his spade, and fumbled around his Yak wool jacket for his pipe. His white beard matched the fresh puffy snow high on the mountain tops, and the empty blue sky mirrored his eyes, both in colour and in their transitory state of reflection. Not finding…

Daydreaming under a city pergola Daydreaming under a city pergola, There was a time we knew each other, When days were blissfully round And words had a clearer sound; When frost coated leaves seemed Ornate and cherished, Falling in Cavatina tones From sycamores overhead; But now, the season’s have changed And the World is less familiar, And though I resist each turn of the page, The reader no longer shares my vision

Yesterday’s prayer flags

I saw a person that looked like you today. She was young. Much younger than you. And thin. Painfully, happily thin. She had your smile. Perhaps she was some distant relative? A child your father never knew he had. She possessed your wisdom. The glint in your eyes that combined sulphur and honeysuckle. The feeling of a finger poised on a trigger with that of a mother stroking The forehead of her dying son.

Sometimes the ugliness of this world is too loud. I now understand, how such feelings weighed heavy on my father in later years. When he was younger, he didn’t dwell on things. We survive by not dwelling on hopeless things. But, as you get a little older, year by year……

Death swings his scythe Cutting weed and vine And flower alike He stamps out Innocent lives The hush of his blade Marking time. Circling circles Burgeoning wide Flattening. Decapitating. Weed, vine and flower alike. Shoreditchpoet

You are beautiful today. Some days are like that. You wake. Drink coffee. Squint at the sun, don your shades. Clap the stone pavement with your heels and intentions. Walk. Music finds its way to you. Conversations do not bore you but alchemise with the city sounds around you. You climb. Descend. Ride the bus. Take the underground. Sit and stand, clench your fists, wring your hands. Remember the woman who once offered you a cigarette and the man who didn’t.

Dads company offered him a Directors position in Portland Maine. He accepted and we moved from our Yorkshire home to Kennedy Park, East Bayside. Joey Sullivan was the first American I recall meeting. He was tall with tidy dark hair and teeth like stars. I imagine he was in movies, …