nicks

I look right just short of West Malling As an orchard fills the train window. It's static in the late afternoon sun: Regularly spaced trees in leaf Above the too green grass. The plants briefly frame a church tower behind, Which is a stone rectangle topped by a cone: Its perfect off white shining against A fairy tale blue sky and fleeting cloud balls. Glimpsed where earlier there had been Barbed wire and nettle: As we passengers leaving London Are bound for our futures.

The poetry of Russia Etched in an eyebrow        Of a man I'd never heard of: Upraised in a flamboyant curve Yet nonchalant and friendly. Who was this man Who had inspired so much love? Who this people?

My momentum is blocked by too much opportunity; By my love of distractions And willingness to lounge about on a pretty detour. There are so many lines on my map That I cannot clearly see the way to our destination. When I share the vision people briefly glimpse the peak: It is majestic, snowy-capped and tall. Come climb with me, I ask, And they come trusting me. We enjoy the foothills And the sense of closing the big target. But at other times we are less certain: It is night and we have no torch to see the page. Are we really going? Yes, I say. Yes. In part because in thinking of the prize I have already spent it: And that’s OK. Dubrovnik, September 2014