Creative Works
A bit like Tai Chi
The sea moves rhythmically
Ebbing and flowing
St Martin’s Crypt
Talking. They can’t stop talking. The woman on the train.
The man who knows about art. I know Manet
and Monet are not the same. I don’t need him to explain.
I creep into the Crypt for a quiet latte but the room
is full of talking. The walls are talking. The dead
beneath my feet are talking in their sleep.
Father had nightmares after the war.
Mother talked him down like an air traffic controller,
while I searched for another kind of peace,
the kind you find when perched like a kingfisher,
you watch the fish-tale flicker of a candle flame
and dive down deep into silence.
If any poem strikes a chord with you, tell me. Only I will see it.
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