Morning Scapes

I can smell Paris.
It has a smell.

I don’t want a home,
(experience has shown me).
I want places I can stay
awhile before travelling on.
I see Durham, too;
feel the things made known
around Durham boys.
An/ Their inaccessibility.

To stay in one place
is to herald a future of
depressing monotony.
Fifties sameness,
relieved only by a spot of cleaning,
a drop of gin.
I want to get up and go, and keep going.
Not stop.
To stop is to admit defeat
is to bow before age as adversity
is to welcome death.

I got Paris on my mind,
and Bible kings by extension.
Perfect days
I want to relive,
but don’t
as their perfection is only in their unrepeatable nature.

Paris – a blur of colours, metro-stops, journeys, graveyards, internet-cafés. And break-ups.
Of night walks along the Seine;
dancing on pavements outside art galleries;
apologies from the man who blocked his own shot; and
photos;
photos;
photos.

Oh, beautiful past! Come back to me!