The world doesn’t know it needs setting right
but we do it anyway
against bucolic backgrounds,
corners of this sceptered isle
known only to types who like to ramble

point to point meticulously planned
by his draughtsman’s hand
our mouths and minds driving us more than legs
words to square away despair at the world
or delight in some magical new tech
to save it

these are footsteps I’ve always followed
always will
despite a mardy heel drag  in my teenage years
the muscle memory - one foot, then the other -
cannot be unwritten
even as knees now complain otherwise

1.
I’m heading to the sea
in a slot not big enough to fit a holiday
so I’ll day
trip

I think I’m packed:
a mind still rattled by life and lockdowns?
check
a palpable desire for vistas unknown?
check
a rucksack of memories, of sand, of wafer cones,
of wasps, of crystalline, sweet wrapper lights on mad, unsafe beach rides, on windbreaks, on digging, on seaweed and brown British waves?
check

Let’s start this engine, then

2.
Should’ve gone before we left
the irony’s not lost on me
even though I’m now the boss of me
I’ve still had to stop in local circles
cos someone needs a ***

I’ll blame the coffee

3.
Frightening fast the local roads fade
the five and ten mile loops of life
are gone
and the roots we commute and commune on
rest bone rigid, obscured

Passing Crowland
impossibly flat plains
thoughts turn to darkness
and misunderstood witches lost here
until the smirk of Cowbit assuages

Only the Welland, alongside
still talks of home
til even she changes
speaks in wider verbs
tidal verbs of ebb and flow
showing thick mud beneath

These long, straight roads are deceptive
leaving meanders to river and mind
while hiding accidents in plain sight

4.
The road sentence ended
and after chewing a space to park
shoes changed to something wholly uncool
but fitting me well
first steps on the unsure grammar of sand
reminding that syntax here takes much more effort

a dune cleft gives a known view
I’ve never seen before
and then I’m through

sky and horizon blast me

for frozen moments I’m lost,
these common seas I shrug off in my head
smirk at
as nothing against turquoise
or rock raged waves
still bring tears
against my smile

I listen at the language in the shallows,
the rush and hustle,
and feel a glimmer of foreignness as I can’t make out the message
but I get the gist

5.
To honour holidays of old
I sat a spell in Wolla Bank car park
though inauthentically the rain didn’t fall

I was forced to imagine the windscreen steamed
and had no fish paste on white
as I’d paid full price to eat at a cafe
unheard of back in the day

I did read the car park info sign
about the clay pits around
where historical sea defences were mined
and that did the job of taking my mind back

and the closing thought of petrified trees
beneath the waves til very low tide
did its best to haunt

6.
Heading home
wistful I suppose,
though I’m not sure where I got all the wist

the sea is a keeper of memories
a chewer and cogitator
so when they return to the shore
and are spoken again
what you thought you knew back then
may have changed
deepened, softened
and hopefully your youthful idiocy
is allowed to be forgotten

if you came for the ride
thanks, as ever, for joining me x

Indigo shades steeping
to Indian ink blackness
******* thought
to a beautiful, terrible singularity
where words struggle
to escape gravity
but on we fly

At the core of my being
I reckon there’s oil
and garlic and salt
and probably chilli flakes,
lemon or lime zest and juice,
or orange at my heart

applicable herbs, like basil
thyme, oregano,
always rosemary as it grows

stock cubes
or those new jelly ones
to amuse the palate
in each experiment  

all to hold off the meal deals
we know are coming

To be kind is not losing,
though bitter sadness
and lonely hours
can make it hard to see,
putting others’ shoes on
simply shows you’re not alone
and though you may not be a hero
widely worshipped, here’s the thing:
you’ll bring a mote of light
to the sometimes dark nights
in peoples’ souls,
which will shine a little back
and if we all fan these coals
with easy acts of decency,
none get lost in black,
none get left behind:
be kind

Starting fires
and suggesting that they sit
in flimsy metal pits
from hardware stores or such
is all well and good
until flames remind you
they have no gods,
no morals, just free will,
while the smoke marks you its own

I sat with another clip board, another list
welcoming those whose once small faces,
mad dashes, hot tears
and cold contempts
rattled these walls for five years

Some had beards, some hips, brio,
some adult eyes
that took two or three glances to recognise
the child still in

Almost all had smiles

Behind them, trooping colour to the tennis courts,
their summer school scions
began their own gangly rise
ad infinitum