There’s nothing commonplace here.
This commonplace notebook,
bound in ashy card and lined with blurred red.
It’s not so commonplace at all.
Is the mud commonplace, that puts forth new shoots of Spring,
and feeds the hungry mouths
that stoop to seek their sustenance?
No, not so commonplace.
And here is the sea,
awash with thought and alive in dreaming.
Fall in, be curdled by the riptide and buffeted by the bluster
as nightly thoughts come rushing in.
Not so commonplace I find.
The whale is sleeping, dreaming, drifting.
Buoyant in lights that blind and glitter,
floating in shoals of angelic and dying phosphorescence.
Is that so very commonplace?
And it is there in the library of thoughtful books
that gently age on their sun-warm shelves.
There in the gloaming dim, with its dust motes cascading in golden highways,
leading to that eternal resting bench – on the hill, in June.
No, not at all common place I’d say.