The Thinking Poet



 Bottle Busting 

After days of mock house-arrest, escape!

Just a little outing for lifeless legs,

A trip to the Common and the bottle bank.

There, the clanking of empty bottles: white, green and brown,

Bottle after bottle bursting like a falling chandelier,

Gives physical release, a culminating peace.


Stick in hand on Kingshill Common I commune with clouds,

Fix starved eyes on tiny white daisies leaping from close-cropped turf,

Press painfully towards the spreading chestnut tree,

Its white candelabra clustered in Pentecostal praise.

Tongues of fire release the long lost language of love;

Who can gainsay that May is lover’s month?


Now that old familiar May breeze blows

Cool, as I nuzzle month’s-name blossom.

Its fragrance blows from cargoes of years,

Carries me, a pygmy lithe and limb-swarming,

To that nose-nestling time,

That bumble-bee pummelling of may.


A smashed bottle can shatter the weight of weeks,

A petalled spray confirm time’s lie.

Now the felt moment spells it out:

“All shall be well” though reason cannot tell.

Even as the heady scent slides from grasp

I need no fear of loss in its lingering.