What to share?

Blue sky courtesy of Mike C. S. @mikecs on Unsplash

What to share?

A truck on the High Road

Is a rumble away. Fresh breeze,

cold noise, morning cloud.

A white morning is smaller

than usual. Less time.

The garden’s recovering,

sucking the soil. Where is the



This almost early autumn morning was probably the opposite of today.

Today, outside, the sky is blue, blue, blue. It is, indeed, three blues: a greyer, lighter one near the horizon, a firmer one arcing over us and above, at the cupola of today’s summer sky, it’s London summer blue.

London summer blue, so welcome;
rare in your cloudless expanse.

I trust that the sun will warm the day as it goes along. There was still (even) a chill as I took my morning walk at 8.30am. After ten years I still struggle to gauge the weather from the London sky – if there is blue sky, it might not be hot, if it’s overcast it might not be as cold as I think it could be. Yesterday, it was very grey and rained until after 10.30am. I was reluctant to head out for the day’s walk. I stalled (phone scrolling, Whatsapp calls) and lingered (taking my time to make a coffee in the cafetiere, decant and take along). When I finally set off, I had to stop at the first bench on the Bishops Avenue to remove the pullover, long-sleeved top and rain-jacket I had on.

It was warmer than
my reading of the sky.

Why am I writing about the weather? I am also talking about the sky. My neighbour in the loft is this changing scape – clouds, rain, wind, rainbows and man’s fireworks. My other neighbours are birds. The large crows that survey their realm from the end of the ridge-board and the magpies stomping on my roof. They make a determined noise.

“What to share?” is from a slim new volume that I compiled during lockdown. Most of the poems are from 2018, a time – like many before commuting stalled – when I used to write on London transport. The micro-collection is titled Jangle between Jangle and I’ll share more poems from it in the months ahead.

So, to, this is enough sharing
for today.

Update: There are now small clouds edging up from the horizon.

What we were all thinking

We hammered it in the sforzando bits,
chiselled it to master tempi,
phrased it gently where the lilt shone through.

While counting down the repeats
we tried to love
the symphony seldom played.

It was our oboist who noted
during the tea and smoke break:
the favourites remain the favourites
for a reason

In my twenties I often played in student orchestras, amateur orchestras and, on a few rare and special occasions, professional/semi-professional orchestras. It was hard work, but in the furnace we had great fun and often developed a wonderful sense of camaraderie.

Sadly, my musical memory is not good and I cannot remember which symphony might be the germ of this poem. This is probably just as well.

Preview my first volume of collated poetry here.

Follow me on Twitter as @BeadedQuill.