THERE WILL BE NO RESULT

It is a natural trudge -- homestasis --
but stagnance threatens,
tempts,
and brass bells call in dinner
and weekends off.

Would you be the belly,
cooing at leather gadgets
and the sunshine
or the artist twirling the rain
to feed her chidren?

You leave it all behind
in your destructive wake
and stamp through oily fields

Or here
you know, and vow to know
and as you pierce the snow
you turn and brush it smooth
so i can paint my own canvas
and turps it after
for them.


There will be no result in the sweltering afternoons from sugar packs and sweet incense. Try as I might I cannot find the secret to happiness in Gandhi's words. All I hear is the buzz of traffic along the suburban main road, the throb of the coffee machine grinding beans and the birdsong -- somewhere unseen. All is muted by the insistent traffic. I know that I love to write. I love the words as they ink the pages in lines and curlicues. Ah I smell the coffee -- sweet pleasure. My sunglasses lie losely on the table. There is a breeze at this late hour -- a relief from the burning dryness. The Sangria has arrived -- and the cappucino -- both rich and full and and bubbling. The coffee is strong and bitter and deeply satisfying. The smell of the fermenting Sangria overtakes the coffee and I sit back and realise that you may never know what results may come.