The Wave Breaks

The wave breaks

on the shore

and rolls out as

 

life pauses for a moment

before continuing undisturbed;

the sea the master of its own destiny.

 

The wave breaks,

the world keeps on turning

regardless of the time or place

 

and where you and I are,

without a thought for the absurdity

of this thing we call life.

 

The wave breaks

as the sailor out at sea is rocked to sleep,

lulled into a sense of security.

 

He is alone, far away from anything

that might be called civilisation,

but he is at home.

 

The wave breaks

upon the shore

where I stand

 

feet buried in the sand

listening to the sound of water

rolling back and forth

 

as nature intended,

and I, I finally feel at one,

here on this beach, hundreds of miles away

where I stand alone.

 

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Autumn

Autumn is here and I long

for those long sunny days

when we walked about barefoot,

short sleeves, picnicked

in the sunshine, sand between our toes.

 

Autumn is here and summer is gone for real

I think as the rain outside

hammers down, the streets and skies

grey and dull, the colours have seeped

away so that now, we’re living

in black and white.

On the Road

Another road, another unfamiliar car park

on the road again

destination unknown,

journey to be decided.

 

On the road again,

with a car full of gear

and anticipation in the air.

 

On the road again

with sand between my toes

and sea water at my feet.

Roads

We’re all travelling on separate

roads, heading to different places

colliding, crossing paths at intervals

and spinning in orbits

that are the same

for a little while.

But we keep on spinning,

closer, further away from one

another into paths

we cannot speak or know

of but we just keep on

keeping on, moving, turning

our own paths and journeys

to follow and end games to meet.

I Don’t Like Parties

I don’t like parties you see,

all those people crammed

into a hot, dark space

talking and drinking

pints and shots

that disappear like air,

people pressing in.

 

I don’t like parties you see,

in unfamiliar spaces

with new people and places

that I don’t know

and things that I can’t control.

 

As everyone races ahead,

I am left behind, forgotten

and wondering what I’m doing there.

Summer

holds promises we cannot see

the dream of new beginnings

long evenings and warm days

stretching out in front of us

full of hope, expectations

and long empty days

ready for potential

unwritten canvases ready

to be filled.

 

But then it starts to run away

faster than we can

keep up with it

and too soon, we’re mourning

the dying days and the loss

of all that time

which once stretched

out

in

front

of

us.

 

THE PILGRIM

He holds a rucksack in one hand
as if it’s an inconvenience,
something he wishes to be rid of.
He leans against a wall,
just another visitor, another passer through.
His footsteps don’t linger there
no imprint is made
to say that he was there.
He is just passing through –
another wanderer,
searching for something.

Roots

I am rooted in the earth there

growing from the soil.

It’s in my blood

my roots are there

and do not move,

while my heart and mind

wanders from beach to cliff,

craving salt water

wherever I go.

Postcards from Home

The Freshwater co-op car park

is a long way from home.

Everything is these days –

home is a distant thing,

a concept I can’t wrap

my head round, no matter how hard I try.

 

Every rolling field, combine rumbling

by, every hay bale and tractor

every pebble on the beach

is a postcard from home

that I can’t ignore.

 

An old tattered paperback,

words jumping off the page

familiar characters and faces on the screen

are like a blanket wrapping

themselves around me, linking me

back to home, an unwritten

postcard that doesn’t need

to be spoken aloud.

PILGRIMS

They returned to the site,
still the same after all these years.
No one else would know they were pilgrims
for they wore tatty shorts and t-shirts, clutched
backpacks and sun hats,
and looked like any other tourist
that passed through. But for them
it was something else – this pilgrimage
that they had made, back, into the past,
a time that had long passed
even if the place still remained
seemingly untouched.