Sitting in the darkness just the glow of the screen

Shutting out the thoughts of what might have been

A grand adventure just one of the plans

Possibly unobtainable, probably fatal

The options get reduced as every day passes by

Every small victory grows much larger as our time grows shorter

But every victory is now more important in the balance sheet of life

Every triumph achieved ads to the dignity of our lives

One day I suppose I will feel pleased each time I ascend the stairs

Then wonder why I went there and feel pleased with a successful descent

On a sunny Wednesday evening I went walking.

 By the river to the dogs I was talking.

I came across a lonely figure sitting.

She had no one to talk to or even a dog to call.

Did she not have a friend that she could phone?

 Why was she sitting there all alone?

Could she be thinking through a problem?

 Perhaps she just wanted to be alone.

The river and I just passed slowly by.
The rivers slate grey coldness mirrored the lonely scene.

Not a word or a glance did we share.

She may not have even noticed I was there.

I don’t know why she was there.

Now she will remain forever a lonely figure in my mind.

By a fishpond where it’s dappled cool and shady.

Sits my artistic lady.

Looking cool in clothes so light.

Sketchbook in hand trying to catch the birds in flight.

Pigeon’s doves and sparrows, robins and today goldfinches too.

Sharp of eye and quick of hand she catches them preserved in lead on paper.

All the walking folk in our town should be very fit.

Each walking journey that they make is made in fits and starts.

They seem to be playing hopscotch jumping from foot to foot.

It’s not pure joy that makes them so.

It’s the dog shit on the paths.

It’s not the dogs I blame but the selfish oafs who own them.

And they know who they are.

Walking on Sizewell beach.

Seagulls gently crying.

Geiger counter gently clicking.

The sky is blue.

The sea is warm.

I wonder why my hairs gone green

I seem to be disappearing

Slowly a little bit at a time

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and wonder where I’ve gone

The face looking back at me as I shave and clean my teeth

It’s not the face I was born with

It’s not the face I grew up with

It’s the face I have inherited

It’s the face of my dad

I don’t have to look at a photograph to remind me of him

Every morning I see him looking back at me

It’s a comforting thought that he hasn’t disappeared

He will be forever a part of me

I love the spring, as the hedgerows turn light green

I love the spring, as the crocus push their way through the discarded needles

I love the spring, with the hanging suicides amongst the catkins

I love the spring, with the overdosed lying amongst the daffodils and narcissi

I’m growing to dislike the spring, with its unrealistic optimism

I hate the spring, as it reveals the elderly that have died of hypothermia

I hate the spring, because it highlights all the ugliness around us

I wish that spring could be more realistic in its vision of the future