The texture of love

The texture of love is the wind in the trees

Elusive till you catch a scent the herbs in the garden

The tearing of thunder cracks us open

and lightening sparks in our eyes

The texture of love is in curtains which we draw each evening

The switch on the standard lamp to illuminate the darkened room

The hand held

The birds' rhapsody

The texture of love is harsh and brittle

Aching and profound

It is in the pots and pans and the rose in the jar

In the maps of our journeys

The very good times

and the bad ones

The smell of lilac

The gardens and homes of strangers in which we wander

In the care of the National Trust

The old van to whose needs we tend

The old hearts that break and mend and break and mend

The texture of love is in all these things

Stop doing that rain dance please

Inspiration is the issue as I look out on the drenched back gardens of suburbia. Surely I should be living somewhere more dramatic. Somewhere with mountains and tumbling waterfalls. Somewhere with a wondrous river estuary and a myriad of tributaries for me to explore in a canoe. Somewhere near to the sea but not near enough to be engulfed or crumbled off a cliff.

Pause for a Virgin to whoosh past on the railway track that divides my drenched garden from the garages of that other mirror road whose houses face away from us.

The lilac blossom has been soaked into rust
Loving it, the castor oil bush has doubled in size
Moody water-filled sky lurks over slate grey roof line
Light fading
It's just that kind of day

Pack everything up and vanish