At The Big Blue
The sun goes down
after six
at The Big Blue -
and the wind picks
up, chilling, as
the river curls its way
under bridges
gritty and pale
with sandblasting -
and your sweet face,
your stalwart hand
wrapped around a
beer marks the day the
hour of our reality -
a West End life
penned in a pine
flat thinking glass
doors and wallpaper
to make it better,
soothe our eyes with
new colour - and
out beyond the river,
the cold air, the
pub
and you, are other
views, other
weather that hurts
the skin and binds
the mind till I am
tongue-tied by
city grit and a
ned-decked way
with naw and aye
assailing my ears -
the doughty nodding
of the pigeons in the
Botanic Gardens
ever-living, as if death
in life did not go on
and one could lose
nothing and keep the
heart whole, the soul
unharmed in our
walking days here -
a grateful bench
and a warm sun,
a whirling mind busy
with words and winging
as if by vision alone
one could make them
true -
the distance from here
to The Big Blue is not
far, but the scour of
miles wears
on the soles, and in
these cold-air-days
when the sun goes down
and the grey takes over
by the river
hard-pressed am I to
see the road
pick up my pack and be
ripe for travelling -
your arm is strong,
the raised veins, the
muscle ropes
hold me, like tent pegs,
down and
grateful I am
for your calming mind
the measured
conversation, the warmth
of your body and your
overflowing heart
which feeds me my
living time, still
here, still
armed, and
trying - the truth will
out, and when I have
disappeared from view
I hope I am not still
wondering
what it meant and
what it was and
how I filled the
minute well
always at cost
always under some
spell of delusion and
analysis - and so I
sit, breathe, hear the
children, the rattling
pram wheels, the traffic -
and hold all of it
like water, clear,
I can drink, the
living moment tracking back
upstream -
going back to source -
that unknown fount
where the river issues
and searches its own way
in, down and through
to the sea.
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