Writing on the Wall

We are leaning out of windows,
watching them from cars,
hanging wishes on the tails
of a clear night’s shooting stars.

Cuddled in the country
sipping flasks of tea
as meteors escape
their celestial canopy.

Eyes field their acrobatics
vaulting deep space and afar
wizened rocks that fall,
share carbons that we are.

On open stubble ground  
a Vixen passes, sharp eared
hears a thudding sound, 
and smells the hole one carved.

Next day the ploughman,
as he turned the heavy boulder
saw the bright blades spark,
glancing back across his shoulder.

Only the fox saw where the treasure
lay casting messages for home
with magnetic waves a measure
of the distance it was thrown,
knew what constellation lost a pearl,
flung far from heavens sea
tossed onto this blue planet,
between hours of ten and three.

It rained too much,
the Martins nest’s washed out,
cats got sick. and
no-one passed me close,
disturbed my dust-particles.
So nothing for July.

Truthfully
I was away ten days,
missed the worst
floods and such,.
hit bliss until I burst.
My boy, my son,
one of my treasured mates
met me off the plane.
I guested in the States.

Boston, my favourite artist
Singer Sargents second home,
mine too, and New York,
Marthas Vineyard for the light.
an inspiration I would sight
as better there than anywhere.

It’s August
I’m in England, the sun is back
painting hard and in a flow.
the dust’s still here, but I don’t care.

Corn’s cut, rape seed all gathered in
square bales stand tall
on scarified hills, shape shadows
long  at sundown.

Some slender from tall trees
reach over a field deep
across ochre land,
roughly shorn like sheep.

Beneath my brush’s strike
I’m small, wet, soft and
yielding to the papers level depth.
Soak up the coloured view
and ripen in August’s golden heat.