Today drags its pale length as does the serpent slow, stately, watchful a day like any other the day that follows yesterday always preceding tomorrow like a tedious argument
Unplanned both shy of work and play bereft hot-desking and agile-working not working for me my day now structured by eating measured by meals by medication by those forever coffee spoons
Nothing planned so nothing to regret meaningless moments with nothing arranged only possibilities are exciting the five o’clock briefing another dose of dead antiques another bargain hunted down one more home under the hammer another escape to the country to the chateau or the sun but from my armchair escape is no longer an option glimpsed desires unfulfilled and not a matter of money
The seaside too still eludes me retaining its magnetism but with the pull of the tide unable to reach me The Lakes a mirage in my memory a Prelude taught to feel, perhaps too much, the self-sufficing power of solitude but this solitude no longer blissful
It now descends the yellow fog obscuring the future taking with it the meaning of my days rubbing its back against the window panes of this my settled cell licking it’s tongue
into the corners of my every uneventful evening. my every desultory day
So please release me let me go I’m being driven potty Let me disturb the universe please do beam me up Scotty
Not quite yet insane please let me live again
NOTE: Readers may recognise certain phrases repeated from the poetic works of Wordsworth and T.S.Eliot, plus an echo from ‘Star Trek’.
Until he died in 1996, Kieran, who was born in Ireland, lived and worked in Huntingdon. He cared passionately for the environment and made sure his voice was heard on local issues. One such issue resulted in the following poem submitted in 1974 to his local Council by Kieran in his representation against proposed local development . . .
Lament to Portholme
where one could walk
entranced in solitude, alone.
Lost in an immensity of open spaces;
disturbed only by the Skylark’s song.
Skylarks soaring, singing,
as the day was long.
Walking amidst wild flowers
and the flowers were many,
knee deep in a blossoming throng,
Sweet birds, sweet flowers,sweet solitude,
all, all, are gone.
No profit in solitude
of a Skylark’s song.
Where man’s soul soars
among the Skylarks
knee deep in blossoming flowers
but not alone in beauty
when greed reigns supreme,
there is no beauty
no peace all sacrificed
all must cease,
when Mammon reigns
and man’s soul sleeps,
there is no other end
There is money in it!
for ignoble ends.
* * *
Submitted by … Richard Lee. I am indebted to him and to Kieran’s family for permission to reproduce this poem.