Tag Archives: Journey

A Journey To…

Every journey

begins with a single step.

And then another…

before too long

you are halfway up the stairs;

nearing the centre of the Earth;

twenty-thousand leagues under the sea;

or landing upon the surface of the Moon.

How far away is your library?

Just a few steps?


Does a single step make an expedition?

Is walking five-hundred miles


a bit excessive as journeys go?

Does the road that you are upon

go ever on and on?



Do you remember your first step?

Is it likely that you’ll remember your last?

And another thing,

If there are only three steps to Heaven,

does it really need a stairway?

Or is there a stairlift?

A Journey?

This is my ‘journey’ poem;

it actually has nothing at all

to do with journeys;

but, it does travel well.

I wrote it

one day

in a far away May,

whilst envisioning Heaven,

which to me would be Hell.

All those harps;

being sat on a cloud;

the rustling of angels’ wings;

and other, varied, sundry annoying things.

”Where be the rain?

Where be the gulls,

It’s sunny again!”

and other fresh Hells.

And when the time came

for my pasty, cream tea;

I’d find out some Devon folk

lived next to me.

And then there would arguments,

for we’d both disagree,

on the placing of jam,

and the to be or not to be

motorway free.

Why couldn’t I be put

next to someone from Kent;

who’d discuss all the hours

in Dover he’d spent;

the castle, the docks,

the thousand natural shocks

that flesh is heir to;

there’d never be a mention of

Torquay being better than Looe.

I could almost cope with someone from York;

as long a I could stop all his blatherings with a cork.

But, not just yet will I head up the stairway;

or take the highway below;

I’m still fairly uncertain,

when I am dead,

which way that I will then go.

(Poem 6 – upon a train) 24 Poems in 25 Hours

Poem 6 – 05:00 16-05-2017

With my back to the engine

Not everyone can do this

Not everyone can travel on a train.

It is raining.

It always seems to rain;

Although, obviously, it doesn’t,

And I am wet.
It is raining outside of the train.

Inside it is not.

I am wet.
The dampness seeps into my inner layers of clothing

(At least I had a coat)

My coat is not waterproof.

I sit upon the train.


And write this.

It is not a poem.

Or is it?

It looks like a poem.

It has the pervading sense of poetry…

And yet…

I am wet.
There is a train going past 

In the opposite direction

It is going to where I have come from (and maybe beyond)

This train is going to where the other train came from (possibly)

And maybe beyond.

Life is full of things.

And I