You're still not seeing it
The master began....
I know I said
And shot him dead.
I can I can I can.

The sly obscuring sheets are undulating seas
And landscapes white and shadows
Flowing.

All taken in a vivid moment's memory,
As langorous limbs are briefly open fields of
Sharing.

And - I know - of course not all you are.
But allow a sunlit second: you naked, with me,
Smiling.

A lifetime would hardly be enough to listen
Long and talk to you, as here we sit
In newly plastered swirling pink
That might look cold, but so not so -
For we are wombed by warmth of voices
Ours, through us - remembered others -
And a ghostly third.

Off on one side in my head. Only
Way to say it. Christmas does it to me
Every time.

I'm dangerous now. Squad don't know
But Inside hardly soldier anymore.  
Standing orders, tactics, kit and all

That stuff replaced by unmilitary                                              
Wondering at the sky,
Or the beauty of the brackets of the forward sight
That frame the blade, the 'I': the part of me
That is my target every time I fire.

Still, my private holiday tomorrow: I will
Close eyes on blinding sand
And wake in chilly splendour of
A Northern wood with bracken underfoot,

And  streams and lichened rocks,
And lowering clouds, a scattering of birds across the wind,
And peace.

Just the way you ruffle up your hair
Would grant your words a tree ring life.
So stopping in a year's walk winter wood,
I will remember -

Count back to seasons of past dreams.
Time is rain and sun and solitude of sap,
That can in quiet, etch rivulets down the years
To where we stand.

I saw the  heavy angel of the bell
And heard his plainsong clear.
The length of fleshy life he showed to me.

I walked away and all steps were bell-notes
Telling me a silent truth of in and out.
Clapping hands that followed, filling

All the valleys of my mind with mother joy:
A grace and blessing of no thoughts
Just ringing life and clouds and air.

A fear of warm false certainly of tiny mind built days.
- Let me climb me out of me -

A wooden rule - dead measure of my time to leaving cold.
- Listen to the gusts of now -

Books take their second life as rooting trees entangling my thoughts.
- I find a space of me to fly a little -
It's all I need.