Nightfall. A day quickly over. Curtains closed on a cold and inhospitable world.
The tea is mine. There is no room for unfounded spurious claims of ownership. Time darkens, purposeful brew. The fire flickers, roars, shouting at the hand that feeds. My attention is grabbed, enlightened. Background noises comfort. There is peace.
Leaves leave my lawn alone
Grass killer compost fodder
Unwanted dead wind drift
In the wind beaten garden, birds hide, branches fall and words scatter. Collars pulled tight on bent head daffodils.
Then the rain; incessant bird bath fill, deafening inside the conservatory.
Later skies lighten, snow is promised. Wind drops and peace descends.
Homeward bound I am, fleeing city madness and the battle against the office worker tide
Homeward bound I am, to recover from an opulent week of self indulgent excess
Homeward bound I am, to a smile and a kiss and a nice cup of tea
Homeward bound I am,
Homeward bound I am.
The world in which we live is blowing up
May has failed spectacularly
And my late train, with broken toilet
Continues to evacuate itself
Returning every few minutes
Behind it’s locked facade
To a cycle of self expurgation
Oblivious to all around it
Who must seek elsewhere to find relief
And yet somehow it seems
To provide a commentary
Appropriate to this moment in history
By Bob Sleigh
Not much light left in the day.
Systems entering night mode.
Hibernation acceptable strategy.
Conservation of energy.
I sit here jivin’ in chair
my fave sounds
the world is in front of me,
go where I please
cap sits comfortably
autumn falls outside
I am alone the girls have gone out
walked to town for a celebrity
followed by gin and tonic
float the boat and down your throat
occasionally I line up the music
don’t leave that to chance
political classes commit suicide
on everyone’s behalf
taking us with them
guitar solo kicks in with drum support
next morning it rains
breakfast over, back in chair
leaves litter no lawn left
Autumn has well and truly arrived. The lawn is green with a mottled brown counterpane of fallen leaves.
Rain falls gently as I gather the last of the greenhouse tomatoes and carry them to the house in the fold of my shirt. Tonight they will be put to good use.
Rose lingers beech hedge shimmers water droplets.
Noises off kitchen industry Anne pops her head through door welcome smile cup of tea.
I mountain constant noise,
Stream dances, rivulet in a hurry
Random butterfly fluttersby,
Doesn’t wait for me
Sheep scampers over
Breeze bent grasses
Lichen rock scattered stones
Breathtaking measures pace
Relax and stare
I lie awake in the darkness, listening.
The constant rhythmic flow of my breathing.
No traffic noise.
Anne stirs and gets up.
She doesn’t realise I am awake.
Feels odd without her there.
No touching of bodies, no sensing her presence.
Hours later she returns, shuffles, falls sleep.
The pre-dawn chorus lures me back to dreamland.
UK is covered in cloud.
Above the cloud
Below the cloud
We are descending
Gradually approaching the cloud
What lies below?
Frozen Arctic wasteland
Ordinary people leading ordinary lives
Is such a thing possible?
Bit of a disappointment I can’t see the Isle of Man. Maybe we aren’t there yet?
Strange to think that below the clouds might be the Irish sea
The cabin attendant goes about her business. She is prepared for landing
Now I can see the sea. It looks calm
The plane banks and Laxey comes into view
Followed by Doolish
whisky bottle empty
Whisky glass, once full now almost empty, sits there in front of me on the kitchen table. There is no music. Only my thoughts. Thoughts of nothing in particular. No memories. Only a sense of being. Warmth. The level in the bottle has gone down. Someone else must be drinking it. No thoughts. A spinning mind full of imagery. Colours swoop in and zoom out. Hypnotic sounds. Wide awake eyes see everything. Amber clarity. Empty bottle…
Today I bought some crumpet, rhymes with trumpet
I like a bit of crumpet, me
Almost too hot to hold and dripping with butter
To be eaten quickly so you can move on to the next one.
Today I bought two packets of porridge, 39 pence each
I’m not a porridge lover, me
Stifflingly tasteless, whatever you add to give flavour
To be eaten by others whilst you have something else.
Today I bought some bog roll, luxury, pack of nine
Bog roll is something I find essential, me
Unless you have one of those posh Japanese loos
That clean you up afterwards, which we don’t.
Today I bought some smoked salmon, it wasn’t on the list
More than she bargained for, Anne
But that’s what you get when I go to the shops,
Spot a “bargain” and assume that someone will eat it.