Cos every little thing, gonna be all right

Cos every little thing, gonna be all right

Don't worry, on that joyful bounce of reggae beat
I hear him sing
about a thing
cos every little thing, yes every little thing
gonna be all right
the upward lilt, the chipsy stride
and yes I know it's just a tale
told to a child, for soothing fears and fright
middle of the night 
your mother's here and dad
this place this home
grandfather built, laid brick on brick
take note, that's not with straw nor stick
we're solid, safe against the wolf

And yes I too have nonsense told
to comfort in the dark
declared that monsters don't exist, not fact but purely fiction.
Let's grasp the lie, the fairy tale
where good will always triumph
and join the dance with chipsy stride 
turn up the music, make it loud
cos every little thing
yes every little thing
gonna be all right.

24th November 2015, Hounoux

Hallelujah!

As through the window's dusty panes the sun
the sky, the landscape shines
so in my early morning bed
here's Cohen singing in my head
his sad but glad, in rising fall
a dirge for love that's going wrong
a poem that he's set to song
resolving in the lovely Hallelujah

Hallelujah in the alto part
a cry to make us lift our hearts
encapsulating in one word
what goes from eye to heart to mouth
the deepest periwinkle blue
the vines in lines a blood-red square
patchworked with yellow, ochre, sage
with blue-green cypress stood in queues
without a thought for artist's view
sentinels as windbreaks sown
but now to stunning beauty grown

and all become as farmers toiled
to work the land to hand it down
with guidance now from bureaucrats
this year the sunflowers, next more wheat
in spring it all will zing bright chrome
with rape crop everywhere for oil


so through the window's dusty glass
there's heritage, the patrimoine
and agriculture, science and nous
technology and politics
and early morning in my bed
here's Cohen singing in my head
it goes from eye to heart to mouth
the sad the glad a paean of praise
repeated and resolved in
Hallelujah.

November 7th 2016, Hounoux.

Well worth the limping

Well worth the limping

We set off walking, rucksack picnic packed
south to the garden botanical, indirectly
round the up and down, the in and out of hidden coves and cliffs
secret sunny places, October bathers and boaters
me with my knee, the left one, shouting at steps
several thousand at a guess
in earth and rock and brick
but on we strode and limped, with stops for views
through parasol pines, the blue of sea and sky
gnarled and knotty branches twisting sideways
until the garden, ah at last, and gorgeous from first glance
paper flowers, bougainvillea,in all the hottest shades
orange, purple, crimson, pink
rampaging up and over, twining in curls
my favorite light blue, sky blue, plumbago, still profuse
Spain being warmer by degrees
and tree upon tree, cork oaks, araucaria, cyprus,  mimosa
(acacia, four varieties at least) with palest yellow fluff
of flower, yet  visible, palms in a grove
giant cacti clumped in family groups
acres and acres on the cliff edge, clinging
spread and grown in ninety years of loving cultivation
the long ago vision of an English woman and her
Russian, settled in Catalonia.
Shrubs and trees and flowers, botanical reference and legacy 
pepper, musk and sweetness, scent and birdsong bursts
and for us, well worth the limping
Thursday picnic in Paradise.

October 2015, Calella de Palafrugel, for Jude

Beyond the moon

Beyond the Moon

Beyond the moon, three-quarters full and floating
boating
white cotton sheets hang on the horizon
and next-door but one,
ghosts bleached by the sun 
four shells misaligned in a square
cockles, scallop, sea snail
are calling forlorn through the half-open door
begging the tide to turn

October 2015, Calella de Palafrugell.


 

Buenos dias, Catalonia

Buenos dias, Catalonia

The sea in the  morning's breathing
like a giant, happy in her sleep
untroubled by dreams piratical, or merbabies 
dancing in schools, unruffled,
only a  few white manes flying, along the rocky shore
but otherwise a rhythmic inspiration, expiration,
lulled I'd say
by Charles Trenet
la mer, qu'on voit dancer
the shush, the whoosh
the sun above, shining in through slats
buenos dias, Catalonia
good day.

October 2015, Calella de Palafrugell

Certain from day one

Certain from day one

It's not often nowadays I get to lie and watch you
me wake, you sleeping
for as we've aged and no more
early-wailing babies/ clocks
are set to start our days
you've turned full lark, to my nocturnal bird;
but in the half light, dawn through shutter slats
creeping in fingers
your four-square profile, forehead, nose and chin
still straight, though softened, obviously
provokes a memory from first discovering days
spring 1970, before you knew
(me on the other hand, certain from day one) 
you're driving and I'm pretending otherwise
but cannot look away
forehead, nose and chin.
I'm dazzled, mesmerised
unable to believe this, my good fortune
my new man, become, though still a  miracle
(my reward or perhaps entirely undeserved?)
but now and always, my old man 
best-beloved, 
dearest dear. 

October 2015, Calella de Palafrugell.