Bobbing
that is what we know,
not controlling the flow
the river turns and off we go
floating or still,
following every curl and rill
every drip,
every rippling shaded shallow
every stately wallowed williow, calm and still
every bump and gravelled hollow
each of us is bound, to follow in its wake
each reflected new direction that we take
is not a vast and empty ocean
or the gentle forward motion of some shimming mirrored lake
it’s a gentle stream of bubbles,
that we have caused to be
bobbing ever on onwards, always looking for the sea

I can feel it,
smell it fragrant on the breeze
watch it in the leaves of broadleaf trees that bend to give me shade
taste it sweet upon my waiting lips
a kiss that comes to me
through every flower and bird and labouring bee,
not in gentle honeyed sips but fresh as new picked mint
every morning clear as day, bright as resting dew at dawn
I hear it whispered through the grass
summer is reborn

There are times when life’s knitting unravels
a major diversion in the direction of travel,
not a dropped stitch, or some existential glitch,
but a ****** awful tangle
a wrestle, a fist fight,
a complicated wrangle
a long overdue appointment with fate,
when we can do nothing but sit back and wait
let it run, see it through
think about anything that we can do
to find the loose ends
pick up the pieces
and start to make amends

Birds in flight,
black and white
synchronised motion,
sweeping wings
skim the ocean

Anglerfish anglerfish
you clever lightbulb dangler-fish

When you go
go gentle,
do not slam the door
slip quiet from the world without a sound,
no harsh and bitter aloe words
leave them unsaid
that time has passed
you cannot make amends
this is where it ends,
so go with grace
still your quarrelsome tongue and heart
depart

Branscombe blossom
fair and light
coats the grass with pink and white,
mossy branch and apple breeze
stirs the limbs of dancing trees
orange tips and foraging bees,
no sweeter does the blackbird sing
than in an orchard filled with spring