Train journey to london, had done a lot of work with the Bristol Drawing School, given a lot and maybe not left much for myself. it left me vulnerable so when criticised even for the tiniest thing, it hurt.

20 Jan 2011

A clear crisp morning
but the crispness is softened by mist.
A not quite white land with
grey green, grey blue ground.

The sun rises turning paler
as it seeps through grey-blue
puffs of cloud to reveal a white disk.

Sometimes a clear round,
sometimes masked by a shroud.
Concealing the land’s look
in a bright white light.

An aeroplane makes it’s way
through the down, small
silver, silently gliding.
Blocks of lorries travel east west.

The first hint of man-made colour
over a bridge are the cars
blue, yellow, red at the lights
Chimney, chimney, spire.

Still blue grey with just a hint of
dark green ivy crawling up the trees.
Cars in the car park at Swindon
are muted by frost.

Reflection of glass, mirror
onto red brick revealing the
true colour of a yellow sun
as if somehow the city has warmed its look.

The nasty purple, pink of a first great western fades
and we are back to
chimney, chimney, now tesco spire
Group logistics, pedestrian bridges.

Flat ridges of corrigated buildings and
then dark passages of train

Nature still remains but not the
open plains untouched by man except the farmer.
His blocks of sheds steam
with unseen contents.

Now dark forest, open land,
bright white mist. Skeletal trees
and thick lumps of tomorrows steak
lick hot mouthed at cold grass.

Bright water lay in tracks
revealing the farmers path,
the farmers touch, his borrowed land.
His flat clean soil, his pride.

Ah romance, at last a dark square church
stands protective of a gathering of houses
white fog silently hangs around
up to it’s waist.

Push, shudder, purple pink, pushes past
buffeting air in between
and then out again, gliding
the sky reveals blue,

the deeper blue of the working day.
Small clouds shuffle up against one another
trying to close in and keep out
a clear day.

Bosh. Bright light again. Too bright
to look at the sun with a halo.
An avenue picked out on a brow.
Momentum lessons, the brakes applied and
my seat’s the last to see our next stop.

Diggers move earth on the horizon, no
not moving, awaiting instruction.
A full load, hanging mid air.
A crow watches.

Pink purple, didcot parkway,
not a stop but a slow.
Next, Curry’s, Sleep Shaper.

Lonely trees, midfield are black brown now
and the grass is green.
the grey blue frost has gone and
left a dull January day.

Springs sleep unseen below seeming dull earth.
Tired, coping.
But underneath working, preparing
for springs light. A longer day.
Less night.

Yellow digger. Blue generator.
mans colours take precedent now.
A paper, flat and unseen lures as the landscape dulls
and then

A golden labrador, a girl in wellies in a wood.
Paddocks, houses, mole hills.
Nosey passengers stare at imagined lives.
Pink purple, whoosh, whoosh.

Purky little houses open to a
fat
wide dirty white mansion
sitting heavily amongst some loyal trees.

Embankments hide the pace we pick up
but purple pink bashes at the window streaking past west.
The white puffs of cloud have been bullied away by big dark ones,
the sun is trying but decides to shine elsewhere.

The white ball peaks through
over the top of now all consuming dense grey
but at Tilehurst it is all gone.

1930’s triumph’s architecture cling to the roads.
Family houses. City link. Self storage.
Saab. Audi. Dull day.

A solitary bird flies over, if only it knew the landscape of the previous seen.
Reading.
Services to gatwick airport.
Cross country, manchester train, grey yellow.

Reading. Why Reading not reading?
Lift to footbridge. Shops. Subway.
Coins and cards. Purple pink.
Still now.

Flat clean paper still unread.
Safety information.
Please read these instructions, which are provided
for you safety in the event of an emergency.

3/4 full bladder from an over ambitious latte,
a sleeping passenger
I’m too polite to disturb,
I reflect on last nights tears.

Bullied by my own middle class desire to please,
to ‘do the right thing’
I take the opportunity to cross a pedestrian crossing
I bike over as she crosses one way.

But she leaves
before I do
and I am exposed.
‘The bad cyclist’.

To the old man
the ‘just had to say’
late middle aged
‘needed to say’, old man.

I know it was wrong,
I was flustered by night.
By cars, by proximity’s and the closeness to the
pavement, to last thoughts.

Yellow fronted
Maidenhead, Reading ( A4 East )
We are off again and the buffetting
from the right seems so frequent now it is less shocking.

The people who ‘just need to say’
Last nights class
Wed. night. It’s just a break ” get my life back ”
Seems like the end of an era

I just have to say
Well don’t.

Too much time given away makes you
Oversensitive, overstreched
Vulnerable.

Then a foot out of place and
‘I just had to say’ The shame.
The crinkled face.
Bang. Purple pink.

Both hands on the bars and a wet face.
Gliding past pedestrians
a face creased up, breath
hijacked by the stammer of stupid sobbing.

Perplexed but unstoppable. Turn right.
To home.
To composure. To love. To talk.
To joy.