They think I'm talking  to myself.
I'm not. I talk to you.
I know that you're not listening
but what else can I do ?

For forty years you've been the one
that's suffered from my moans
so who else can I turn to now
to listen to my groans ?

If only you were really here
and life was as before,
you'd tell me "Don't you be so glum.
What are you crying for ?"

We used to say we had a rule -
if one of us felt down,
the other had to pick them up
and turn their humour round.

But since you died and I'm alone,
I'm feeling down a lot.
The children do their best to help.
They're very good but not

my wife. I simply want you back.
I still can't get my head
around my loss. There's nothing left.
I might as well be dead.

Out of my depth and floundering
you tried to teach me how to swim;
I learned enough to keep afloat
and then you pulled me in.

Secure on land I found my feet
and gladly fell in step with you;
we marched together down the years
and hid the sea from view.

With time we built a barrier
proof against any threatening storm
and in its lee we passed our lives
peaceful, dry and warm.

But then you died and suddenly
our guarding sea-wall cracked apart;
it cannot keep the ocean out
and I'm back at my start.

But this time's different from before -
no teacher tries to help me swim;
no longer caring if I drown
I watch the sea sweep in.

I wish I believed in life after death
for then my few remaining years
would have a purpose past all fears,
knowing the way to reach you again
would start with my last breath.

How we would literally jump for joy
at last when we could spot each other
among death's refugees and smother
ourselves with hugs and kisses then
as if still girl and boy.

And so many stories would have to be told
from all the painful years apart.
Though hard to know just where to start,
they'd all tumble out in the end
as eternity unfolds.

And you would be well not wasted and ill;
your eyes would shine with happiness.
We'd cling together for the rest
of time and never part again.
What chance of all this ? Nil.

Kribi, Cameroon

This is as far south as I go -
another mangroved beach to show
the neighbours when I get back home,
hot sun, cool breeze, black skins, white foam
fingers of sea clutching the land
but slipping backward down the sand.
Driven by unseen forces they return
in vain, unable to unlearn
the constant useless worrying -
a toothless mongrel slobbering
its worn-out, ragged, tattered toy.
This is a thought I don't enjoy.

Here with the time and peace in which to think,
I think of you when struggling on the brink
of life and death, so feebly clutching life,
resigned to dying, slipping away from strife,
too worn-out trying to survive. These memories
revive the bad time when all remedies
were gone. The old heartbreaking scenes return,
the searing plaintive wailings I must learn,
not to forget, but not to be upset
by. No matter what I do, I won't forget
you clutching the bedrail where my hand should be.
The pity and the pathos stay with me
but I must mend my tattered life. Henceforth
I must move on. Tomorrow I go north.

Kings Church creative workshop

Unlike some other 'congregations'
a roughly equal spread of sexes
and certainly more young than old.

The hymns had catchy tunes and rythms
well strummed in chords and  generally
mouthed by all though volumes varied.

And yet the lyrics seemed unusual -
much use of 'God' but none of 'Jesus'
and but a single one of 'saviour'.

The idea of God was strong protector,
a trustworthy refuge in a storm -
what women want in ideal husbands !

Chinguetti cemetery, Mauretania

No neat rows here of polished craftsmanship.
Instead most plots are roughly marked by shards
of shattered rock set edgewise in the sand.
Headstones, where they exist, are crudely hewn,
some shallowly engraved, some painted, some
bare stone lacking Arabic inscription.
This is a harsh land. No soil. Rock and sand.
The sun burns, wells run dry. The cemeterey
seems a jungle of jagged teeth, sharp, hard,
or open charnel house of broken bones.
The scene gives little comfort, one would think,
but early morning sees the blue robes drift
between the graves. One woman's pink robe flowers
next to the stone she sits beside and holds.
Others sit or stand gripping the headstones
of their lost loved ones - parents, spouses, sons -
something to hold on to in the pain of loss.
I know the feeling and so feel a bond
past race, religion, wealth or national strife,
with other fellow travellers through life.

At the disco

Don't think about it.
Don't let the thought brush across your mind.
Don't let even the flicker of a thought cross your mind.
Don't let the faintest shadow of a flicker . . . .
She's just too young.
(In her thirties at most.)