Today I wrote a few notes outside the record shop overlooking the dual carriageway, in Watford, on a grey day in December that could have been a grey day in September, so warm was it.
I sat outside with a consoling cup of coffee, and ears full of soul-building rhythms from the speaker. Thank god I’m here, thought I, thank god I had the courage to follow my feet to here, when I should be somewhere else, let my brain in my aching skull, under my thinning hair, just sit here, for as long as these songs take to build me back a new soul.
I had no paper, so I wrote on my phone, felt good, consoling like the coffee, to feel the words dropping onto the screen, see that there was some structure coming through which I could use to prop the day on.
Hair loss I
The trees show their skins
Without shame, to the cold
They glare back, when we
Hair loss II
A shedding of hair is akin to
A shedding of complacency
When it was there, we noted
It not, when it is gone, weep
We it’s going, alone, without
A cover for our head, our
Bidding chip for love and more.
Hair loss III
Should I keep a lock of it in a
Tin in the Watford soil, a relic
Of my time on this earth, past?