To start with this post here are four lines I wrote yesterday [in my head] while driving to the shops.
the boat will not set sail today
the waves run too high
a slowly rising red sun
into a mackerel sky
Originally I wrote herringbone sky but on checking the phrase appears to be mackerel sky. I will leave you to decide which is the more effective.
On wet days, before he truly went blind,
my father in half moon spectacles,
would get down his maps,
unfold them on the kitchen table,
his fat finger tracing familiar trails,
he would one day take,
over this mountain, across that moor.
He talked the big picture but noted the details,
in the crevasses of the folds.
I dreamt my own dreams.
The end they said, was a cigarette,
of course I arrived too late,
after the fire, those all consuming flames
that ate my father and his rooms.
The day after I raked through the ash,
not expecting to find anything
and I did not.
These days I use a phone screen,
reduced to letting an algorithm to dictate my route,
which takes no note of altitude or contour,
battle site, henge or tumuli.