Simon Heathcote

Photo by Klemen Vrankar on Unsplash

There’s a fabric we call
existence — it lies
gossamer thin like
any desperate hovering mist
& we plunge in again & again
at Aphrodite’s seductive behest.
It’s the finest of tricks
drawing us in — in from
immortality & on to two legs.
No wonder I used to drink &
fall down, but surrender is not getting
up, yet somehow I always did.
Now, I bow, hardly leave my knees —
not for a minute if I can help it.
I learned to face towards infinity
finally discovered the object
of my gaze was the subject ‘I’
long looking out to see.

Copyright Simon Heathcote

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Photo by Tom Bradley on Unsplash

I am grappling with Spring —
the way the blue finch comes
to settle on the rusting gate
tells his melancholy tale
then flies off again.
Does he sing to me alone?
I suspect birds hold the cure
for the entire globe & I wonder
shall we take time to comprehend
or will we remain preoccupied
with mortal things?
All the voices in my head must
surely return to their nest.
I am farther on because
I value what is invisible —
the liquid transparency of air
& water, all that clear space upholds.
One day I shall disappear
where others simply refuse to go.

Copyright Simon Heathcote

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Simon Heathcote

Simon Heathcote

Psychotherapist writing on the human journey for some; irreverently for others; and poetry for myself; former newspaper editor. Heathcosim@aol.com