Walking a path.

 
The dream of little things,
a flare strip across the mind,
being gentle and kind,
the English way.
 
An exhibition,
a thin trod line in grass,
dew bent
and Earth rent.
 
Listening to Mr Eliot on the radio,
the way things go,
black and white, black and white,
everything you did lack.
 
Saying to father in his old Rover 90,
on the way to holiday Wales,
I want to got to the T. Eliot,
before I had read Dylan or Sylvia
and only the grey of prayer,
before the flaming rose bush,
as floating a needle in a glass of water.
 
I dreamt I saw an old artist friend,
ghostly and half there,
he ignored me when I hugged him,
then said thank you and packed his suitcase.

 
~