I am met by this low sun and much less birdsong than forty years before..
She sat at our table placemats squared like her stubborn kissed chin..
The daily rituals return like when I took the wooden rule..
Almost December and this bit of our northern hemisphere is being tricked by the man-made warmth into putting feelers out from within the false Spring which catches too keen lifeforms and me I am over dressed for these modern Novembers
Again she loosened him like you do to a ripe scab with a quick pick..
Our laid souls will return to the same parish there imperially paced by our pre-descendents..
I do not want to see or to feel the place in which you a Light have to exist..
Here hiding under the cover of lowered lighting and a backdrop of acoustic guitar with a heavy glass of London Pride A tongue-end taste which takes me back to then 1984 trying to read Potter on Potter But playing other songs from old TV shows inside my head He wrote (almost) musicals and smoked E210219