In time all chimneys lean towards the sea

 
 

It was two hundred and seventeen miles

from his borderlocked centre

to the tongue of the port

and it took him seventeen days to drive there

 

He dawdled

 

drank coffee

watched matinees

and marvelled at gothic fan-vaulting

in village  churches

 

He slept on the reclined passenger seat

in lay-bys and car parks

everything he owned

in the footwell or the boot

 

          And he followed the bow of the chimneys

              across an October England

 

When he arrived

he watched the ferries

counted the arrivals

and departures

 

Eventually he rummaged his passport

from where it had been sandwiched

between his O Level certificates

and a wedding photograph

 

He examined her face

 

saw in the fold of her smile

the same look he’d glimpsed

nearly three weeks ago

and winced that it had taken him so long

The Cloud Appreciation Society 

In their final term

they met every Thursday afternoon

 

lay on the grassy bank

overlooking the tennis court

and read poetry to each other.

 

Now you think you know

where this is going

 

you may have a picture

in your head

 

the two of them

she is wearing a flowery summer dress

 

maybe he has on a

cricket sweater

 

and it’s all a bit

Brideshead.

 

Then again it could be

kaftans and beads

 

or just nondescript fashions

from an era you are comfortable with

 

and it’s their faces you’ve pictured

 

so if you are male and straight

then she will be beautiful

 

and if you are not

then he will be rugged and sensitive

 

and as to the poetry

they were reading

 

well

I’m not even going to go there!

 

But I could be bluffing

twisting the tail

 

getting you to look one way

while I pull a ferret out of a hat.

 

That word ‘term’

could refer to a prison

 

and it really was

two grizzled old lags

 

finding solace and tranquillity

in poetical muses

 

opening doors

and breaking down walls.

 

But its not

 

it was two soppy students

who don’t really warrant a poem

 

and I’ve lost my train

of thought anyway

 

and can’t really remember

how I was going to tie in the title

 

but I know that

there was going to be something

 

profound

 

somewhere

At the summerhouse

 

 

As the days passed

he slept later

 

the sun risen a little higher

by the time he opened the curtains

 

At the end of the first week

he stopped wearing socks

 

with his sandals

 

and bought himself

two loose cotton shirts

 

The rhythm of his existence

slowly squirmed

 

so that

 

he took off the recently presented

unengraved watch

 

ready to measure time

by the darkening

 

of the pale band of flesh

at his wrist

 

His food became simpler

and by the end of July

 

he moved with a grace

he’d not felt since 21

 

He cycled to the supermarket

every other day

 

and walked the beach

each noon and dusk

 

He filled his lungs

 

resolved  to see

the seasons through

 

and hoped that

just once

 

he’d feel the creak

of snow on sand