My thanks to all those loyal readers who have stayed with me through these last five years.
'A word is never the destination, merely a signpost in its general direction; and whatever body that destination finally acquires owes quite as much to the reader as to the writer.'
GOOD FRIDAY IN ST PETER PORT
Sun warms the rooftops of the old town,
flows between close-built houses like liquid honey
and, in the tiny, unkempt gardens slipping down
the hillside, gathers interest like bankers’ money.
Gulls stand like weather-vanes to face the bay
from chimney-pots and leaning chimney-stacks.
Swallows scythe like scimitars from break of day
till evening when, with rounded backs,
finance workers ascend the hill, evolving, as they do,
into the dour wife, weary father, wayward son.
With laptop, bespoke suit and tie askew,
they hurry homeward, overtime undone.
Sun beats upon my shoulders as I climb
these narrow streets, unburdened, heart astray,
no cross to bear except the Cross of Time
whose crushing weight steals youthful strength away.
On granite steps I pause to mark the view
of painted boats that scorn the castle’s gun,
the sea, around the islands, unremitting blue,
the distant, crooked rocks where foreign currents run,
then, towards the airy summit of this prideful town,
set off, ascending, liberated, free,
through layers of stillness soft as eiderdown,
content, this hallowed day, to simply be.
Higher and lighter, the heart, of hope, bereft:
so many yesterdays gone and few tomorrows left.
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