Morse Code

Your

__ . __ . __ __ . __

. . __ . . _ _ _  _ . _ _ _  __

_ . _

on my window pane,

like rain,

heard again

and

again,

like Cathy,

tapping,

tapping,

the tree,

her conduit,

the night,

her dream,

landscape of loneliness,

open the window,

let her pull you through,

so you can be ghosts

on the moor together.

Time Line

I was an anxious child,

An unhappy adolescent,

An insomniac teenager,

An insane twenty-something,

A responsible thirty-something,

A depressed forty-something,

A resigned fifty-something,

And now I am a hopeful sixty-something.

I've come this far and the view is beautiful,

though ever-changing.

As long as the sun keeps shining,

The winds keep blowing,

The rain keeps coming and going,

and clouds race across the vast sky,

changing form continuously as they go,

I'll see life and its possibilities in their shapes.

P'i

Yesterday, in the garden,

the warmth of an unseasonable sun carrying gentle Rhodes jazz across to our neighbours,

the absence of the drone of traffic,

the birds resting in trees,

the world holding its breath as the music played on.



Today, in the kitchen,

the tree stands out through thick veils of cloud,

the drone of the central heating changes its tone over the relentless ticking of the clock,

the long tailed tits chase each other out of the garden,

the world still holds its breath as the time ticks on.



Tomorrow, has come and it's sunny,

the silence penetrated by the tap tap tap tapping of the builder's tool,

the train rushing through to the tunnel but no horn today, the track's quiet,

the birds', always somewhere, flitting and peeping and trilling the cool air,

the world's awakening and counting each in and out for a different tomorrow.




Held in suspended time, waiting for the end of the story,

everything sits heavy with meaning,

the brain paralysed by its own weight,

intuition vies with superstition,

dreams and nightmares write themselves in runes before our eyes,

We feel the sun on our skin and fear its heat.




Another now;

A figure in an overcoat, nodding in his chair on this chilly day,

Family long gone,

He's alone with his phone,

Sleeping some time away.

The stone cutting yard strikes up it's drone.

Here, we all sit still, 

Within our Samuel Beckett's stage set,

Didi and Gogo are fixed far apart,

and we're grieving, 

All of us lamenting Godot's tardiness,

Sometimes we lose our belief in his very existence.

Perhaps he is in our laboured breathing,

Each in and out Time's sigh.