In Vibrant Colours

On a train, journeying

on the first day of

the last week of August

I see the rape fields have

Gone…. that sea of Yellow

Vanished

the earth turned upside

down…. brown

cleaned and leveled

scraped, left almost new

Summer’s colour

changed

Now the complexion of

masked decay

Rust and Yellow

spots of Black and shades of

Brown

tomorrow’s debris….

in vibrant colours

 

Thatcher Doran

It’s Time to Get Up

The morning started

while I was still asleep

A courtesy…. no doubt

while under the eyelids

I am making plans

items I will change

another breakfast with Satie

then a walk before the rain

although the rain has always

being a friend

an element to trust

talking in the rain always

did disguise the pain

Enough…….

It’s time to get up!

And Do……

plans are the weaker side

of one’s potential!!

 

Thatcher Doran

 

Here and Now

To sit in silence

with just the echo

of the room…..shift

the faint sound of nature

through the patio glass

birds and things

To turn on Satie….

confirms the melancholy

of solitude

this enigma reflected in

the morning sky

the consequence of a life

confined to such a space

this room….Here and Now

 

Thatcher Doran

Full Stop.

train is struck

full stop.

with no intention

of pulling out

just sits!

at platform two

like a spare….

oh good,

here’s the announcement

first the apology……

then, gibberish

the missing syllables

have other business

a four year old

is using the intercom

then silence!

a more important train

is creeping in

Too late

forget the schedule

next the reprieve

then, we’re free

wonderful……

and the day has only

Started!

 

Thatcher Doran

Thistle and Flower

Memory….

an echo of Time

that shadow of place

and the melancholy of

distance

fades with each day of

living

an ambiguity of space

then, the uncertainty of

age

all in the sphere of the unknown

Constant…..

the past slowly overgrown

with both thistle and flower

though in those quieter

moments

there is the echo………

 

Thatcher Doran

A Momentary Glimpse

in the secret garden

another circle turning

it’s late spring, again

the seasons lean

fold upon themselves

like absent-minded friends

one to four….

in spite of everything

youth will turn grey…. then old

such is Time’s slide of hand

though Birth will seem to

conquer Death

an illusion at best

Death will always have its

way

….Gone

A momentary glimpse

 

Thatcher Doran

Taking Notes….

I’m in the cafe, again

taking notes

Its Thursday, for some payday

mid-afternoon the cafe is busy

the man in the hand painted

shirt

marbles his words

then spits them out

like red hot coals

each one fused

then a shout, to emphasize

meaning

language is an interesting

conduit

particularly the use of tone

that torture inside a mouth

words masticated

then spat out….

no joy or shape

then the painted shirt leaves

his words no longer screaming

at least the rain has eased

the sky a softer shade

still time for another cappuccino….

 

Thatcher Doran

 

A Label, a Name

Have you noticed?

parents are looking younger!

Being cool….

A label, a brand

how are you doing, buddy?

you can call him bud

he won’t mind, he’s cool

but, I’m a dinosaur….

I prefer mate!

 

Thatcher Doran

 

Watching Summer Showers

summer showers

with thunder force

nature’s pain… shouts

moody clouds across

innocent skies

now…. sinister grey

then the noise….

a million blunted

nails

hits the earth

turning clay moist

soon the aftermath….

patches of blue….survive

sun peeps through

blackbirds hoe

the cool damp soil

the smell of cleansed

earth

oh so delicately

soft steam rises

all this, in twenty minutes

while drinking tea!

 

Thatcher Doran

 

A Time of Flowers

flowers of time surround

the frost bitten urn

roses, white and red

incline their heads

carnations and lilies

profusely scented

this once perfect urn

timeless…..

how time and weather

those vengeful elements

have shown their scorn

scars exposed….

yet, like a centurion

it stands

its wounds of duty worn

today, brown clay caresses

that once pouting lip

an open fissure….gaping

terra madre in terra cotta

with a hydrangea head

 

Thatcher Doran