Posted in Rituals

One for The Road

Blue, blue day
late spring countryside, still green, soon it will be yellow
then brown.
900 m to sea level
3000 feet to 0
youth, fitness, tailwind :God’s trifecta.

We pulled into the car park at the same time
them in upmarket sedan
me on two wheels
both attend to grooming
me brushing off dust, flicking away sweat
they loosening ties and removing jackets
Feet, four pairs of expensive leather
one of sneakers
crunch gravel.

We hold the door for each other
“ no after you ”
five tumble through simultaneously.
At the bar
“ what are you having – our shout ”
one lager and four single malt’s,
I join their table – they insist.

They have come from my destination – a funeral,
a good mate
from about, “ the age you are now.”
Forty years before
the war just ended …. their lives just about to begin.

They tell me about the road
when it was shingle
and before the bridges – the fords and washouts
they had come up here a bit then
“ hunting and stuff ” – no wives and kids yet.

Eyes of six and a half decades shimmer and glow
once again five, once again young.




Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.