I went over the Hardknot Pass under Scafell Pike
I lingered with the Hardwick sheep on the shore of Windermere
Where the rain fell down and the mists obscured my sight
I chugged down the Eskdale railway to the station
I visited Muninster Castle where the owls seem to cry
I viewed Sellafield from Ravensglass harbour
Where in the small street there, no one seemed to alive
And I sat in the Bluebird Café by Coniston water
My thoughts like a gentle whispering breeze
That were trailing behind me through mountain passes
With my dreams in the hilltops and my feet in the Irish Seas
And I sat in the Bluebird Cafe by Coniston water
I saw the bird of the blues disappear into the trees
And the ferry too come circling into the harbour
And the sun came through the clouds on its hands and knees
And I tried to think of you by Coniston Water
I tried to think of you in the Bluebird Café
But like the mists and the breezes my thoughts were trailing
And the sun and the rain they went away
You should have been here with me by Coniston Water
You should be here with me in the Bluebird Café
You should have been here with me but all I have is the breeze
You should have been here with me on this strange holiday
The coach man had to hurry, I hardly had time for some tea
I chased an umbrella that floated through London. The drizzle of rain fell continuously on a stone moss covered cherub that was occupied by a nesting pigeon. The umbrella flew from the top of a bus. I followed. I heard it talking about the Belfast Peace Agreement, from beneath its canopy a cache of guns fell into a hole in the road. The umbrella floated through The City twirling round with a tilt to its axis. A small floating white dog began to bark at it, as a phoenix skulked across the road and set fire to a parked car. The umbrella flew into Conway Hall, dancers were rehearsing for a musical, it went into the ladies to drain away the water and emerged carrying all kinds of leaflets on anarchic and religious lectures in its handle. The umbrella grew two big greedy eyes and danced a little in the corridor. The umbrella continued its journey in the drizzling rain through Bloomsbury into a café where I sat with it for a while. Its two big eyes sometimes stared at me when I wasn’t looking. I took it into a shop to buy it a companion umbrella but it didn’t want one, instead it took a fancy to a transparent rain hat. On through the drizzle that was falling even heavier now it allowed me to hold onto it until we reached the British Museum. Undaunted by the mass of humanity sheltering under the portico, it folded itself up and entered inside and with its two big eyes found its way into the Oriental department where it fluttered over a Chinese Goddess. Then it followed me back passed the Babylonian room and down a long corridor to a secret chamber where birds of paradise flew in a blue mist. Finally it had to leave, I tried to hang onto the umbrella as it flew out of the Museum above the houses and came down into a huge drab city temple called The Barbican where life size plastic people on plinths stood about like in an architectural drawing. It found its way into a cinema and sat me next to a courting couple. I collected asterisks that fell from the Pearl and Dean adverts. Later on the umbrella became rebellious and flew around the complex in much restlessness. Back out into the city streets the umbrella was spinning now, a tongue of flame hung down from it and it began to say strange things making its two big eyes whiz around until it reached Liverpool Street. The rain was still falling now in delicate perpetual drizzle in a magical light. The umbrella went to platform three and got on a train to Bethnal Green. The station proved to be like a space structure high above the earth, I scanned the panorama of the East End from the balcony wall and saw the umbrella float down and away into the falling night.
I have never had a discount for love; love is never at half price. If it dies, it dies whole; if it lives it lives whole. Love detests coupons; love detests a price. You can’t capture love with a penny or a pound and many before me have said the same thing.
If I could cram my whole life into this room and lock the door. It will disappear like a lift into the bowels of the earth; it will become the smallest atom passing through a black hole in space and back again, then it will jump into song. But if love is inside that atom, the atom will not be able to contain it, it will stretch and strain and squeak and scream but it will never hold love in. Love is not in the atom; love is elsewhere, in the memory of life. Love picks you up like you’re a three legged fly and says poor fly, and when love gets the order to march, love will give you back your legs.
Upon the night of Halloween the voices came again telling me that their way is the only way. Lies, I said, your tricks do not deceive me and then I awake. And there I was, in a room, and in that room is my whole life, and I must pay the re
They say, do not compare this to spiritual love. But love is a palette of colours; love is a compass of points; love is the circle from night to day; love is the lifetime and more.
Can they say: you are not allowed all the colours?
Can they say: you cannot travel to the four corners?
Can they say: you must be awake in the day and be asleep at night?
Can they say: you should only live half of your life?
Is love a picture half finished?
Is love a journey never started?
Is love like gold left behind?
Love is good news and bad news
Love is the whole twelve notes
Love is the whole chart of the elements
Love is the leader and you are the follower
What’s left of love is still light
What’s left os love is still food
What’s left of love is still love
Love times love times love