second winter fragment

winter fragment

Icarus

icarus

fall

sun

son

The sky as thin as paper

this membrane,

to night

yet as before me
the light rises
as day falls

in side

-

following the light
not as a path
but more of a scan
a scan of arc
( twilight as reverb )

this after glow
as shine
as everything

Acquiescence
a
pale
reminder

and then
high jets
their tales
tails
light and electric
rising
falling
fast/slow

spoked rays
fanned
over
ending

night crown

-

jet in ether
towards the blue
icarus
lid of night
compress the day
eve
a chink
a closing gap

iris

lens

for a moment

-
a cloud
hovers above me
febrile
as if moving
just forming
resonates
as if to touch
form
to come
and then
go

form moving through air
air moving through form

hung before me
as a thought
a notion
its belly becoming more solid

as I grasp it
it falls away
and becomes a cloud

-

this air
is
silent

and then a crease of sound from above

-
time dissolves
time as a carriage
I halt
to stop

and this wind
makes a measure of it

-

the light in the west
its shine
last forever
in this moment
stretch
bend
curve
horizontal

amulet
its lamp
brighter
as the edges
the periphery
grow dim

no reddening
just a paling

-

light

as a psalm

as a communion

October ground

Bottalack Cliffs
Here again, at twilight and my mind is blank to the outside
words
A question I have been asking myself recently - is my work riddled with death?
Or pointing toward it ( even in youth )

-

The air smells of the west
There is a space with fragrance
scent
a natural odour

Scilly
in the dull effervescence
a twilight gloam
pink muted to orange - one way
and to grey violet - the other way
vertiginous

its vague smear southerly to the left
there is one part of the sky that is a pale gold window
as the day dims
sinks
it saddles the night
the colour is almost rich
getting richer
as this darkness forms
from the east around me, a shroud

last window
riching splendour

greys turn through blue towards violet

the world's jet streams in china blue

the orange glow
still shifts southerly
westward day

earth's rim
a pointing towards
(not extraction )

sometimes the ' spirit ' - in the solaplexus is absent
empty
sleeping

and then a bright star
many jewelled
opine

above -

the orange hue from the west

through fugged clouds

looking for an ecstasy

02 10 07

Back in the land of green, chips and antiques
I am at the Windy Ridge Cafe outside Plymouth - pensioners special
This is cuisine
my number is 43
A nice cup of English transport tea
My sleeping was not good last night

At Plymouth Ferry Port met a Danish cyclist/eccentric who was ‘doing’ Europe on his bike
He asked me directions to Harwich, i said follow the coast
He was very interested in the morgan
talked about the fumes on the car ferry and had to do his exercises to clear his lungs
Also something about they only used the one vw in Auschwitz to kill the jew.
It seemed to go on
I couldn't understand in that English way of polite dismissal - I was home

The windy Ridge was on top form, Antique roads show on the TV,
It puts me right back in it
I hope I am not too beige if I ever get old.

“ Its very reasonable here “

Chips

Chips are to the English what coffee is to the Italians

Chug along west in ill bella,

some car

home to my loved ones with open arms.