Tomorrow he goes

Tomorrow he goes

tomorrow he leaves

like those two spacemen did

leaving behind a world on fire

for silent weightlessness amongst the stars.

tomorrow I’ll take him to rest

tomorrow he’ll run again

free of pain to catch his tail

and to swim in a warm sea

too far away from us.

tomorrow we’ll say farewell old boy

tomorrow we’ll kiss his fur goodbye

we’ll breathe in that warm dog smell

and stroke his silken ears

one last wonderful time.

tomorrow I’ll remember you

tomorrow I’ll never forget

the strong thump of your tail on the rug

the speed of the wag at supper time

and every time we were near.

tomorrow I’ll take away the traces

tomorrow I’ll be lost in grief

but I’ll be finding soft black hair

on cushions and sofas for months

and be glad that you’re still here.

Tomorrow never comes they say

but now tomorrow is today and I’m totally lost

bereft without my shadow

holding a shabby red collar

and a kindly proffered receipt.

Tomorrow will be easier

tomorrow I’ll remember the joy

of the precious gift from the Blue Cross

And the honour to live with a Labrador

who who showed us how

To be the very best of us.

And the soft tocks of my clock

The soft, hesitant ticking of the alarm clock

Usually beside my bed

Now near my desk by the telly

To tell the boys whose turn it is to shoot ’em up

But they’re not here this week

Time’s got a rhythm, but it feels halting

Seconds stretch and trip

Never coming quite when I think they will

Like the kind of jazz drumming I’d like to love but can’t

Too clever too complex

Is it just about to stop?

I freeze my fingers

Pause the click clack of my keyboard to listen

No it still ticks

Of course it does

The batteries are pretty new

Time to keep writing

It’s been so long since it’s just flowed

The table wobbles under my typing

I stop to feel it stopped.

And there’s distant birdsong in my eye line

Through the window in front of me like a multiplex cinema screen

Are ninety-eight thousand shades of green

And one pure Pantone of blue

The tree leaves shuffle and wriggle in the wind

And I stop to watch their wobbly static waltz

A wren, as fast as a bat, and a red-headed woodpecker

Bigger than you’d think

A smooth shallow arcing up and down kind of flight.

Fast too

A sped-up smear of vivid green and he’s gone

A Chaffinch or maybe a Bullfinch I don’t know which

I should look them up

There’s probably an app for that

But my phone is over there and I don’t want it here

There’s a hare as big as a spaniel watching me from the field

Except he’s not of course

I’m behind the glass, motionless, and the wind is behind him

Rippling the spring Barley

It’s grown a foot in the last two weeks

He flicks his head right rotating his ears like radar

He can probably here the keyboard’s clicks

And the soft tocks of my clock

I should put the radio on

I will in a minute

The last days of my May

The last days of May feel like,

the last days of maybe.

The last days of thinking I may.

The end of days of soon I will.

The end of days of ‘tomorrow’,

the end of I’ll start tomorrow,

the end of tomorrow will be best.

No more knowing exactly what you’ll do,

when the time is right,

when the money is right,

because as well you know,

the right time is right now.

Not new year’s day.

Not your birthday.

Not the first of the month.

Not tomorrow,

because as well you know,

tomorrow never comes.

And it’s OK,

because it won’t be OK,

it’ll be much better than that,

as well you know.

Because every time you start,

you feel better.

Much, much better.

So start again and keep starting.

Start every day,

every hour,

every minute,

just keep starting,

and pretty soon you’ll be rolling,

and the starting will just be doing,

and in the doing you’ll be living.

Living today and every day,

the living you love,

not waiting,

for the time to be right,

which never feels right,

as well you know.

I am indeed grateful

I am indeed grateful for the balm of warm sun on my skin.

Grateful for the liberty of bare feet on the lawn and on the path,

where the old dog lies soaking up the heat like a sponge,

and where my boys pluck daisies for no reason at all.

Under another clear sky like vintage bleached denim,

another cloudless day without deadlines,

and with no urgent place to rush to.

I am indeed grateful for the salve of a summer,

that seems without end even though it’s not yet June.

Losing track of days and losing count of when this stop began,

losing sight of what it was like before,

and losing the memory of the last rain.

I am indeed grateful for the sweet herbal medicine of green,

the shade of the Goat Willows and their tumbling catkins,

that catch on the wipers of the car I’m so rarely driving.

I am indeed grateful for the healing of staying put,

for aimless wandering as a panacea for always wondering,

and the longing for the longest days and shortest nights,

of this country’s very best time.

Outside these sheltered five hundred acres,

under these same scorching skies,

it’s different.

The changes that seemed so nearly here,

and whose time was so inevitably now,

Are still so, so far away.

I am indeed grateful for the balm of warm sun on my skin.

If like me, you miss the sea

If like me, you miss the sea,

don’t worry, she’s still there,

still ebbing and tiding.

I checked.

If like me, you miss the trees,

don’t worry, they’re standing tall,

still branching and leafing.

I checked.

If like me, you miss the hills,

don’t worry, they haven’t changed,

still ranging and peaking.

I checked.

If like me, you miss her kiss,

don’t worry, she hasn’t forgotten,

still smiling and glowing.

I checked.