An August poem with moths

Buzzing around the oil lamps

On the maestro's writing desk

He flicks through his well thumbed

Collection of erotic 

Prints. His wife thinks he is writing.

He isnt. His mind has moved far away

To when he walked the streets of London

Town

And bought a fuck for half-a-crown

The clouds followed, massing like soldiers

And now his study & recreation was this

Musical odyssey through time and space

Ending in a pasture of timely hillocks

A-pace, a place in time and space,

That has accompanied him

Throughout his adult life

Like a sentence. 

 

 

and in times of death and darkness

these words and images

of the ordinary made extraordinary

lead him on

to

astral weeks

of plenty

wet with rain

and tears.