Daily missive breaks into the weekend for Saturday the 21st of January.

“How many times have I told you”

She would say

“People will see what they want to see

No matter what you do”

Standing barefoot in a queue

Waiting for coffee

A beach bum

Still looking for the perfect wave

Skin burned the colour of Ogden’s nut-brown flake

The hair on his face as white

As the sole of his foot was black

A statement of sorts

A freedom of expression.

There should be no embargo

Or age appropriation

On bohemianism.

Who am I to judge

Seeing the world as a series

Of tableaus.

Once there was a flower show

With pretty roses all in a row

Every single one a beauty

Whatever blemish they had

Was in some part a product

Of their environment

Nothing they could ever do

Would stain the memory of their perfection.

Having a roll in the hay

Can prickle the skin

But the impression of a youthful

Frolic,

The imprint it leaves

The magic of the memory

Still lingers, long after the tumble

Is over.

The rumble of thunder

Is not always accompanied by rain

Too many people make that mistake

And are caught out again

When they think it's all over

Leaving home, ill-prepared.

Find a posy on a gravestone

Read the epitaph slowly,

It is forever

Even as cut flowers die.

Monk jack deer will eat the heads,

Leaving brittle stems

As dry leaves crumble into dust.

The number of people

Lying dead is always on the rise.

Is there anybody left?

We will not forget them

Or forgive

For the pain of loss.

Two people in a long embrace,

Barely conscious

Of an audience,

Lying in a doorway,

Lusting for each other

On an old blanket wet with rain,

It could be an island paradise

For all they care.

Who knows how old they are,

In their world

It's not what matters

Or what’s important,

It is their moment.

Listen to your heart

Never rush to judgement

When you can wait

Until the beginning of a story

Finds its end.