What is saddest about grief is that it fades,
like memories whose colours drain away and sharp lines blur.
The once life-threatening wound of grief gradually heals.
Some deny this, wanting to keep their injury as intact
as their loved one's bedroom. They pick at scabs,
preferring the poignant pain to numb insensibility,
guarding their wound as a badge of honour.
Yet over time the raw flesh seals;
the scar can be touched without wincing.
But the shrine created for their loved one
has become more important than its dedication.
After all the turmoil, it must not spoil.
Distraught, they cannot put aside the thought
that to stop grieving is to be disloyal.

Where do they come from?

Where were they hiding?

After you thought you'd got rid of them all !

You just look down

and there they are -

the little specks that the vacuum let fall.

Old folks care home

We pity them as they doze in line,
Death Row in cosy armchairs,
waiting in limbo for their turn
unknowing or past cares.

But when they sleep, what do they dream ?
Might loved ones re-appear
in dream-time's vivid reality
so that they once more hear

their darlings' speak and hold them close
and kiss their tears away ?
Then 'Pass' on pity; do not stay.
Though Heaven's a dream, dreams can be heaven.

I like to think myself broadminded
so, when at the gym I kept on seeing
time after time the same two women,
I didn't care that they looked like dykes.

The Belle was dusky young, attractive;
the Butch was white, hair cropped and older,
and obviously the boss who'd shoulder
responsibility for them both.

They exercised apart quite often
with slimmer Belle working the harder
while laid-back Butch appeared to guard her
from any outside interest.

I had met eyes with Belle a few times
and hadn't been totally rejected !
One evening then, while feeling dejected
I thought I'd ask her for a drink.

Then thought again and soon decided
better to go through Butch considering
that she might think my interest threatening
her own relationship with Belle.

I cracked a joke with Butch in passing
and talked about the gym, then whether,
since she and Belle were there together,
they both would join me for a drink.

She answered me with instant frankness
"We don't have time. It's me that brought her.
I'm only here to please my daughter."
Broadminded ?  Maybe.  Stupid ?  Yes.

Until two minutes ago these were the band,
the evening's star attraction.
Their raucous introduction to the stage
permitted no distraction;

their brand of classic rock and roll had spanned
decades of memories
among their aging fans; their pulsing beat
and vocal harmonies

put smiles on faces, rhythm into feet
and fire into reveries.
Instrumental solos set fingers tapping
and local dignitaries

got up to dance amid good-natured clapping.
The crowd demanded encores
and the band responded, closing their set
to gratifying applause.

Now the low murmur of conversation
seems like silence. No longer the centre
of attention the players start to case
their instruments, dismantle their equipment,
manhandle amps and speakers. No roadies
here for a gig in a pub. This is not
the stadium to which their youthful dreams
aspired. Do they play for the applause,
enjoyment of creating music
or just the money ? The leader signs
the receipt, accepts the cash and shares
it round. Back home soon to a nightcap,
wife and bed. Up for work tomorrow.
But next week has another booking.

Playing tennis for the first time in four months
and running backwards, I tripped over something,
fell on my bum. No doubt funny for some
to see but the bolt of electricity
that shot up my spine made me roll to one side
and back to the other trying to flee the pain.
And then lie still. End of game.

Quickly the other players gathered round
to chip in advice and serve as needed.
One lady even made tentative ground
strokes but due to the crush receded.
For a moment there, through the stand of shins
(and some attractive calves),  I saw
a strange sour-faced old wizened guy waiting
apart at the back of the court.

At last I winced and groaned to my feet,
drove slowly, painfully home;
full length on the sofa gives some relief
but blowing my nose, a cough or sneeze
electocutes my frame.
I roll from the sofa on to my knees
and pray he's punished for being to blame.

Is this the future? A damaged spine?
Or just a foretaste of old age?
Never again the stairs two at a time.
Just bitter helpless rage.
I want to go back to before I fell.
I swear and curse him every day.
It's all that bastard's fault. What the hell
was he doing with a scythe there anyway ?

Ditchling Beacon

Half an hour up here on the hill
is hardly forty days in the desert. Still,
the spread and distance of the view
and some appreciation of the time
geology took to form it will
challenge bigger egos than mine.

Now, however, realising
just how insignificant we are
doesn't conjure up some God King
whose Intelligent Design proceeds
beyond our human understanding.
Instead, the scale of nature feeds

our curiosity to know
exactly what exists and why and how
it works. We've ditched old miracles
like watery feats and even resurrection.
We no longer need to show
mastery of the supernatural.

Discovering even stars are born
and die leaves our eternity forlorn.
Now miracles are that the universe
exists plus so many unplanned
species of life on Earth ( and one
of them begins to understand ).