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Posts Tagged ‘Walking’

There are deep words that sound
Sound throughout the doings of a day
Working, Running, Cooking
Hillwalking
Can cover them for a spell.
But as a bell  clanging
The tension of the sound carries.
So there are words  there
From behind trees
Around buildings
Along byways
And main  roads.
In places where people gather
And are alone
There
On waking

And at the pause before sleep
For me now the deep sound
And the words
Merge into
The sound of your name
And the answering echo

Calling in my heart’s space
Your name before me.

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Bluebell frillary

Shoots of Barley on the hillcrest field

Wet dripping barbed wire

Silver slivers of cold Spring light

Through a disorder of branches

A palette  of greens

Smatterings of shade

Brown muddy boots

And from everywhere

Birdsong

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I’ve given up the shore for Hills

These Hills

At twilight the Lough glows yet red

Clutching the last of the Sun

I’ve given up The Shore for these hills

Hills yellow with furze

Coconut smelling

And birdsong trilling out

Below ribbons of streetlights

Show colour, a friendlier yellow

It’s the mounds that have it tho’

Dusky mounds of fecund blossom

Falling away making this

Spring’s snowline of bushes

Broad brushstrokes

 

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My fingers are stiff and sore with the cold
There are no smells from the pines
The winter sun shining through
Carries thoughts of warmth
The resins not warmed enough to ooze
I’d have to carry this pack much further south for such heat now
My shoulders hurt.
My poor fingers
Better get on
Winter brrr…

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‘A bag with a zip but no baffle
Will be colder than a bag with a zip baffle’.

Well that’s me anyway
Always well baffled
Creaking up the stairs
Now bumping into the furniture
Walking into the corner,
The Sharp pointy bit of of a day
Not quite sure where things were left.

To seize on to, to catch
To hold on not to let go
Never worked
The draughts still got in
Twisting and turning in the bag
Caught up in lining
Too warm too cold
A quality bag will have no zip so no need of bafflement.
Cozy too.
Hell yeah, Always well baffled

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Bluebell frillary

Shoots of Barley on the hillcrest field

Wet dripping barbed wire

Silver slivers of cold Spring light

Through a disorder of branches

A pallet of greens

Smatterings of shade

Brown muddy boots

And from everywhere

Birdsong

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He wore sturdy brogues and thick woollen socks. Nothing else.

On the table in front of him he had placed a goldfish bowl. A carp gazed at me with malevolence. It bore an uncanny resemblance to Elvis in The King’s final days.

Anger management issues I thought to myself.

“Crisp?” The Rambler proffered a packet of Smokey Bacon in a friendly manner. I politely declined. Best not to talk to him. I stared out of the window. We passed through a tunnel and his fleshy reflection loomed large in the pane. Crisp crumbs fell from his mouth, some of which landed into his pubic region. He picked a number of the larger pieces out and popped them  into his mouth.

“Turning nippy isn’t it?” he asked in his avuncular manner. The fish continued to stare.

The train came out of the tunnel and the guard announced that we were approaching Kemble Station.

“My Stop!” beamed The Rambler. He stood up, wiped the remaining crumbs away and reached up to the luggage rack to retrieve his luggage. A wind weathered scrotum dangled limply two inches from my eyes.

“Come on Lester, our stop!” The Rambler said as he picked up the goldfish bowl. He smiled at me as he walked toward the door. I noticed the imprint of the seat lining on his buttocks. The left cheek would benefit from a good quality emollient cream.

I put down my chicken salsa wrap, my appetite somewhat abated.

I doubt if Celia Johnson had experienced this in Brief Encounter.

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