Carried into the sun | an old god | senile with gifts | not caring where the heat curls | and pools | A hutch of | life | last drops | each with their ancient | plummet | but the vertigo | different now | Grateful for small mercies | grateful for small voices | Listen to the dry leaves | scuttle across pavements | a certain | equilibrium | last day of summer, and the first of spring, and only | distance between this | same day | The mules of all my ventures | kneel and lie | out from the packets on their backs | roll unneeded cargoes | spew of pearls | clunk of gold | bolts of silk | a flap and bother of books | my famous Diary of a Million Frowns | unpublished | Lazy Masterpiece for Idle Reader | of Questionable Character | Fantastic | tendrils | wither | armies of sense and of conceit | retreat | balloon of oratory | gaudy Montgolfier | punctured glides | deflating over | bypasses and fish farms | golf courses and railway | sidings | towards the inevitable | Land of Lost Places | Nevertheless, Monsieur Amadeus | or Mr Thelonius | play on a little while | and Lord Sun | burn | as you must | my resistance to ashes | It matters, but | it doesn’t matter | my indolent hero says | admitting defeat | My mule bones | bleach later | on remote | mountain tracks | and children | play with the pearls | flicking them into the river | and the moments | like the sun | go on | holding back the world | for so long, and then | naturally giving

Lord Sun | I know you have been nagged and harassed | by various people over time | insulted and importuned | praised and made | to listen for hours to some young fool’s | witterings about blazing and rising | setting and shades | so I won’t | detain you | (as if I could!) | longer than a moment | I just wanted to | thank you for stopping by | and let you know | I appreciate your work | I think most of us do | and I hope your light | is long adored | and long may it | pick out the little things | equally with the great | the grasshopper | near your lover’s hair | splashed out on | a blanket of Dharma orange | in a garden | long ago | the river in its mystery | in touch at once | with spring and sea | a length of | liquid connection | the clack of oyster shells | chucked in a heap | and the jet | teardrop earring | laid on a dresser | the shadow | of gliding fingers departing | in the late afternoon | lit with your shining

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, August 2014)

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