Balancing Act

Walking through a really interesting museum with my little boy, we pass a man in a wheelchair, very elderly, frail, skin taut, being pushed around the exhibits by his carer.  An old bus, perfect condition, double-decker, seems to grab all of our attentions at the same time; from different points on a compass, we converge there.  And here we are, for these few moments, poised, balancing on something we cannot see.  So close to death he is, no next chapter for him; it is all he can do to stay with us, in our makeshift gang of four, looking at the immaculate, garage-green paintwork on this beauty.

Cut Loose

To spend
Spend coins, inheritance, time
How will I spend this time?
How will this time be spent, spent out?
This time, this moment,
This moment now framed,
Seen as a moment with no affiliations
No affiliations to the self just gone nor the self to come
This will be the moment spent on you,
On your small hand in mine, on that park path,
Or the moment of that slow-tumbling Sycamore leaf
Mid-morning on a Tuesday (how naughty), side to side you float, so well for such a large leaf
And this moment will be fully spent, spent clean, spent out, cut loose


There is something to be said, I think

At the heart of things, there is a great, swelling sadness

A sadness beyond the realm of common feeling

A sadness with no tale, no push or pull

A sadness that is not particularly known here

But has its home in all places

Don’t think of pity nor remedy

You draw closer now

Refine this sense

Open out