On the sound of Mike Oldfield's guitar

I hear you unexpectedly,

Like a voice I had not known 

Meant so much to me. 

You catch the resonant frequency,

Of a deep, old, heart string,

And I find tears on my cheeks. 

Unbidden, salty water seeps

Across the smile lines and creases

Of my aged, happy face. 

How could I not have known? 

The hours and days of revolutions 

I had spent with thee!

Placing the needle carefully.

Listen, turn, and place again,

And again, repeatedly. 

And now you are in front of me,

And I listen to you live, as your

Tight reverb slices away the years.

Grief is a Sniper

Grief is a sniper.

No warning, none close,

Just a scent or a sound or a word and

CRACK!

There's a hole in your heart and

Tears bleed slowly down your face.

Grief is a mugger.

Sunny day, new job,

Just a text pinging out of the blue and

BAM!

There's a punch to the gut and

You can't breathe, no breath, just sobs.

Grief is a ninja.

A glimpse of a face,

Just a shadow behind a shadow and

Nothing.

You are lost. Out of place.

Grief is a bastard.

Please can it stop now?

To the sea!

Late starting, I glide through lanes that earlier were wet and chill, 

and now are warm and dry under a high blue sky.  I smile.    

My bicycle and I know the way and it seems that in a jiffy  

I am sitting, sipping coffee at the periphery of the square, 

Surveying a landscape of lattes and flat whites, families and gym-types,

And a delivery guy, hunched over his bike, wrapped in a duffel,

Too heavy, too warm for this day surely?  

The sun beams.  

The bunting barely twitches in the breeze.  

Then up, up White HIll, crossing to dim woods of oaks slight and mighty,

One leaning precariously, seeking sunlight through her sisters' corrugations. 

Suddenly, into the light, and a kettle of kites, surprised, whirl into the sky, 

Curling wings scooping air, shooting up and around an unseen dead thing.  

I am gone before they know it.  On to Paley Street (not a street), 

Cockpole (it's a Green) and Touchen-End, but how to say it?  

Tooshen? Towchen? Tooshie? Tutchend? 

Woods give way to wide fields and carefully curated trees. 

The domain of horses, stables, fences. 

A shimmering chestnut and a sooty grey 

Flick and swish flies from each other's faces,

The grey's tail a cascade of blonde dip-dyed tresses.

I settle into a rhythm -

Bike and legs and breath and pedals turning,

I cycle through another wood, the road 

Expensively fenced with greening half-poles.

Oaks by the hundred, Scots Pines, anemic 

Field Maples, and I'm surprised by a line

Of Redwoods! Giants! Their solid columns

Wrapped in ferrous, tactile bark, made to hold,

Grab, handle! Their tops unseeable.

The most aristocratic of trees. 

A sign on the high gate says "Forest closed" 

To a dead-eyed deer bloating in a ditch. 

The road winds on, past fanciful ruins,

Grandiose golf, and over the Beacon

I am teased with glimpses of the sea,

A dull blue smudge in the late afternoon.

I emerge from farms and farmers' doings

Into full four lanes of full throttle traffic,

Before at last I drop down to the coast. 

But there is no sea.  Tall dusty houses block my view. 

Roads lead south to the sea, but I go east, 

The sun is setting, and I am hungry.

And so, running on empty, I press on. 

Brighton buzzes, but it's in my way. 

People stroll in random patterns,

Skater 'boyz' with skater grand kids, 

Tennis bros with tats and Aasics

Cars and bikes and pints and traffic lights...

At last, fast past the marina and  I am free,

Surging through Deans Roe, Rotting, and Salt.

A final bolt,

Legs, heart, and lungs, urged on, 

With promises of sustenance and sleep

Just around the corner, 

Just over that hill, 

Just one more push,

And then,

The last road, last climb, last breath,

The last

Of what is left,

And sweaty rest. 

I'll go to the sea tomorrow.