Poems to Read

INTRODUCTION

The Book ‘Farewell To Friends’ was originally written to provide a collection of 108 poems suitable for reading aloud at funerals and memorials but has been found to be useful to bring comfort from reading in private.

In the Preface Tony Morris writes:

“There are poems here that express sadness, humour, anger, bitterness and hope. If some are loved and others hated, though I would expect people to have contradictory responses, I shall know that I have tapped into real emotions.”

In the ‘How to Use’ section of the Book Tony explains that where the poems appear to be gender specific the ‘he’ and ‘she’ can be interchanged.

Here all the poems in the book are set out so that you can scroll in and out.

The Poems are free to use and enjoy but you may wish to make a donation, particularly if you make use of them away from this site. An appropriate Button is here provided.

JUST LIKE JOHN'S

The musicians play
A Lennon song.
John is gone,
Now long gone
For peace and love
Were not to be
His final song.

None know
Their final path,
Around which corner
There lurks death.
However they map
Their way
Always someone other
Has the final say.

But even after they
Have gone

They can leave
One last laugh,
One final song,
Still have their say,
Stay on and on,
Music lingering on the lips,
Just like John's.

THIS TRAIN

This train
Is leaving
Station number one.

This is
Only the first
Station on the line.

This is only
This time;
Death here
Is not the last track,
A first, slow way
Forward with no way back.

Time is only
The distance between
Sleepers
Measured in turns
Of wheels.

This train, now
At station number one,
Is, simply, moving on.

FLOWERS AT THE GATE

In the classroom,
See, she sits alone
After all the other children
Have gone home.

Though she cannot see
Through tears
Anymore,
Her classmates
Not see her,
She is not on her own,
Witness the flowers
At the gate
Where hushed groups
Wait
For her final passing.

They will remember
This moment for life
When grief was bright
In the flowers
On a rainy day
And speak her name
Again, again, again.

WALKING OUT THE DOOR

Couldn't use his body
Anymore,
So, he
Walked out the door,
His decison,
His choice,
The last whisper
From his voice,
Hoarse in the night,
Bright as the raven's
Tumbling in the
Mountain winds.

Free in flight,
His soul flew
On his last breath
For a life away,
Real living,
From an existence
That was death.

IN THE MORNING OF MY DREAMS

In the morning of my dreams
I shall remember, always,
The tilt of your head,
The smile in your eyes,
Without tears,
Your form,
Your warmth,
Your voice.

I shall not forget
In the mourning of my dreams.

I HEARD HIM SING

I heard him softly sing,
Again and again,
As he sat alone
But never alone,
Surrounded, corralled,
"Take me home."

Not of West Virginia
Were his dreams,
Not of rolling plains
Or mountain ranges,

Yet, on his lips
That barely spoke the words,
I heard,
Distinctly,
"Take me home."

GENTLE TOUCH

The touch of your hand,
I shall remember,
Forever more;
The brush of your lips,
Soft on my cheek,
As you said, "Goodbye."

I shall not forget
Always, your tenderness,
Even in pain,
I shall remember,
Never forget
Your gentle touch.

LADY IN BLACK

The lady in black
Was by his bedside
For many a night
Before he had the courage
To ask her to dance.

He saw her not in black
But white,
An angel of mercy
In the dark hours,
A bright relief

And when, at last,
The pain was gone
He took her arm
And crossed the floor,
Gliding as never before
And saw her home
And stayed that night,
No more to return
When day was light.

HER LOVE

It had a grip on her
That controlled her life,
Her eyes, her smile,
Her voice, her touch,
No little was too much,
It was her principle
Co-ordinate
In life
And in the end
It led her home,
Safe, without a fuss.

She was and is,
And always will be,
A part of us,
Even though apart
From us,
Bound from beyond
By her lasting,
Love
Stainless, no-rust
Love
That will not blow away
With the dust,
Her love.

YOUNG OLD GIRL

Jiving with a zimmer frame
May sound bizarre
But Molly was not
Your normal nonagenarian
Nor was she vegetarian,
Red meat, red wine
Her style
And when the band played jazz,
Man or no man,
She'd be there with her spare legs
Shaking her rare, red legs
For all life could give.

An artist in an unusual medium
Of metal and movement
She lived for the rhythm
Of the moment
And even at this moment
She'll be jazzing
To the all star band,
Laughing, laughing,
Enjoying the grand
Rhythm of beyond,
The forever, never
Whirl of runs
And riffs,
Legs a swirl.

That was Molly,
Young old girl.

HOLIDAY TIME

Gone on a journey,
Gone on a journey,
She's gone on a journey,
Holiday time,
Vacation from daily,
Doly drudgery,
Rawtime.

Gone on a journey,
Not coming back.
Would you?
Once you break the back
Of daily living,
Daily striving to make a buck,
Care for the family,
See them right,
Always responsible,
In charge.

Well, now, she's at large,
Ranging the other space
Where there is freedom
To stretch and move.

She's gone on a journey,
Travelling on,
On her way,
Journeying on,
So, no objections,
Wave her along.

SLOW DANCER

She was a slow dancer
When it came to dying,
Moving in the final corner
On the slippery floor of life,
So near the edge,
So graceful,
No fear of falling,
Sure of her steps
To the end.

Faith and assurance
Born of practice,
She was the last one
On the floor
As the music faded
And the lights dimmed.

No one saw her pass
Into the night;
She went
As a whisper on the wind.

OPENING THE DOOR

I open the door.
You are not there,
The house is empty,
Empty your chair.

A spider scuttles
By the fire place.
I start at the movement
In this deserted space

And yet

The memories are good,
They give me grace,
The will to carry on.

I see your smile;
I feel the comfort
Of your warm embrace;
I feel that love that
Lingers on.

There is no death of love
Though you have gone;
There is no death
Where memories remain
And while I remember,
Memories ease my pain.

SEA POWER

Let it go, let it be.
Love is for the free.
Threads are broken,
Without words spoken,
Words are mere tokens
Of feelings, thoughts,
Let it go, let it be.

There really was no you:
There really was no me,
Only one of us.
Now the sea has washed over
And only one rock is left
On this shore;
You are part of a greater ocean,
So, I let go, let be.

HEALTH WARNING

Well, you've eaten your last meal.
Paid the price,
In spite of those years of pasta and rice
To make up for the cigs and booze,
Fast food of the fast years.

Was it worth the change of diet,
The cholesterol free, no eggs, no cheese,
When a little garlic and red wine
Might have kept you fine
And doing the hippy, hippy shakes
To the last.

I got news.
You died of
The healthy carbo-hydrate blues

STAR TREK

Don't get around much anymore.
Inevitable, when you're dead
But nothing to do with age.
Time travel becomes the rage
In the later years of life.
Just hook in and away we go.
It's the star show
Round memory lane and future row.

So, when death comes
You're on the way,
It's just the take-off
With booster rockets at full.
Hear them roar into life
As you slide out
At full throttle.

No, don't get around much any more
Because you're away in a straight line,
Off to explore
A previously
Hidden planet.

A TOAST

Black velvet round the coffin,
Black velvet round the hearse,
Black velvet coats the horses
Drawing him home at last.
Black velvet in the glass,
Smoothing the final path.

This is the wake of the boat,
A creamy froth on black waters
As we say goodbye.
Farewell life's warrior!
Here's to life!
Cheers to those who live!

He'd have wanted it that way,
Draining the glass
To the last.

EPITAPH - "SIMPLY THE BEST"

"Simply the best."
Now she is
At rest from being,
"Simply the best."

In a life,
Sometimes full of trouble,
Nothing was too much,
Nothing too little.

She would help
All the rest,
Let her epitaph be,
"Simply the best."

"SMOOTH OPERATOR"

He was a "smooth operator"
In all he did.
Let's face the facts,
An eye for the girls,
The "main chance".
He led a merry dance,
Yes, a "merry dance",
Living life to the full
Where even "the bull"
Was genuine,
In a way,
His way,
Which he always made
Your way.

One of life's gentle men
With a twinkle in his eye,
Always a thought to your view,
Considerate, kind,
Never blind to others,
Yes, a smooth operator
And always a friend.

SUNSHINY DAY

"It's going to be a bright,
Sunshiny day,"
She used to say,
"When I've gone
That'll take all the pain away
That no drugs can.
One day the window will open
And I'll go through
Where the air is fresh.

I'll be sorry I'm going
Away from you
But 'I'm going to go
When I got to go'
To get away from pain,
Where it doesn't rain anymore.

Yes, one day soon
It'll be, for me,
A bright, sunshiny day."

"SWEET OLD LADIES"

I once heard
A psychiatrist say
That to be a "sweet old lady"
You had to be that way
By five years old.

So, no gold in childhood
No golden days in age;
No alchemist can conjure
From dross nature
So pure a metal;
However, life may grind and bubble,
Cool and distill,
It is for creation's will
Or not at all.

If this be true,
There is no "fall",
All are born or early brought to grace,
Or not,
As case may be
And thus there is
No disgrace
In lack of "sweetness"
In the aged
That in spite or malice,
Sharpness of tongue
Plagued all that cared.

There is no personal fault
And when at last there is
Silence, peace,
Relief for all,
Then simply a sigh,
Even a tear,
Can be shared
In passing.

THE EMPTY CHAIR

No one spoke of the empty chair
In the fold between wall and window.
Cracked lives broken by age
Went on with daily routine,
Pills and potions from the witches store,
Visitors they pretended to ignore.

No one spoke of the empty chair,
For all they knew
It waited there
Where one could view
The world beyond
This place of daily rain
Where no grain grew
And life was spent,
Time for waiting
For the next call.

They glanced
In the fold between
Wall and window
And no one spoke
Of the empty chair.

NOT CRICKET

Have you noticed how often eulogists
Talk like sports commentators:
"He ran a good race",
"He had a good innings;
Stood firm at the crease;
Played every ball life bowled him
With a straight bat;
Kept his wicket intact
Until clean bowled by God",
As though life is only about
Muscularity.

Yet there are those who live lives to the full
Who are not muscular,
Save in intellect or kindness,
Gentleness, love,
For them life is not
A fight for supremacy,
A display, a joust,
An imitation of war
And showy skill,

It is a quiet place
Where other people dwell
And they can share
And care, embrace
And kiss away the tears,
Sooth the bruises
And bathe away despair.

Their strength unseen and real
Which no eulogist can portray,
Betray with the irrelevance
Of words
From "Sport for the Day".

AGNOSTIC

Monkey, monkey up the wall
Where now the sigh that saves us all?
Where the old man in the sky?
Where the wherefore and the why?
Now we post-Darwinians know our past,
Why not plenty? No point the fast,
No point the prayers, no point the grace
For evolution treads its pace
And we within it have our place.
Whatever we do, whatever we think
Evolution takes us to the brink,
Some survive while others sink.

Monkey, monkey up the wall
Catching at crossed trees
To save us as we fall
And swinging upward once again
Become the upright monkey then
And men and she-men, as they swing
For a brief time, in the jungle,
That is their life,
Become the King Monkey,
Monkey up the wall,
Where now the one dying sigh
That saves us all?

SENSE OF HUMOUR

"Where's your sense of humour?" he'd say
As he pinched a nurses bottom as she passed.
Born before the days of political correctness
When being "sexually harassed" was something
Females had to accept and enjoy from
The grown up little boy in all men,
He had no sense of propriety.
If he had, he'd grown out of it.

"What's the use of being old," he'd say
"If you can't be naughty
And get away with it, call it,
'The privilege of age.' "

And, strangely, he was right.
There is a charm that makes one
'Turn the other cheek', so to speak;
For those on the edge of life,
When they twinkle, you sparkle back,
When they let you look through there long telescope
Scanning the planets they have lived on,
Light years away, you forgive the fingers
Trying to make mirror focus adjustments
And missing the controls as once they missed
The gear change in younger, rangier days.

"Where's your sense of humour?"
Yes, in time you smile a voluntary smile,
Understanding, caring what makes
Other's lives worthwhile, makes yours worthwhile,
A smile, always a smile.

LAUGHTER FOREVER

“You’ve got to laugh," she'd say,
"Otherwise it 'ld be such a dreary day.
You've got to laugh,
Or otherwise you'd cry."
And then she'd laugh and laugh
And cry with laughing.

"Oh, I could die laughing," she'd say.
"I can't stop," she'd gasp and laugh
Again, again, again.

Until, one rainy day,
She saw the darkening sky
And died laughing,
The power of laughter
Taking her last breath
So it could laugh forever.

REFLECTIVE MOMENT

She looked in the mirror.
She was not vain.
It was a habit that had developed
In the long, lonely years,
A desire to see a human face,
Even though it was her own.

She looked in the mirror
And there was no reflection,
No familiar face.
She had not noticed any change
Before this moment.

She stared, transfixed,
No reflection in the mirror.
"What happens next?" she thought
And then the reflection returned
And she sighed loudly,
"Just a little practice,"
She thought.

The next time
It was for real.

THE BROKEN WORD

"See you later," he said
As he closed the door.
He never did.

He was only up the street
When they called the ambulance.
No one called me.

It was all over when I was told.
"He didn't suffer," they said.
So, that's all right then.

I just don't believe them
When they say he's gone.
He wasn't the sort to cut and run.

Yes, I saw him in the chapel of rest,
All fresh faced and like an angel
But he wasn't there.

So he's got to be somewhere.
I keep expecting him to walk in,
Tell me it's okay.
Every day I keep expecting him,
All the time.

I know he won't really
Come back, ever
But I can't believe it.
He's still too real,
Memories too solid.

I still argue with him,
Demand to know why he's late.
I get no answers.
It's like dancing with a broom
in an empty room
When the band's gone home.

I suppose in time the flowers will fade,

Lose their colour, and so will sorrow,
Self pity, but right now
I want to cry and scream
My pain aloud for me,
For me, for me.

You see, he said he'd see me later
And he never did.

WAKE

Silence is the wake of the siren
As the ambulance dashes through town
And half a step
And half a word
The people pause
Unfinished thoughts put down
And each is alone
For a moment
Under the siren,
Inside
After the last word spoken,
Last breath
On a last ride.
Jetsam of shops and offices
Bobbing on the turn of the tide
Silent
On the wake of the siren,
Faces,
They cannot hide.

THE OLD MAN

Cobwebs hang in the corners
And the old man does not see them.
His moist eyes cloud
But he does not weep.
He smiles.

He sleeps
The few years
He remembers half-awake dreams
and retells
To anyone who will listen
A much retold story.
He has no new stories to tell.
He does not know unhappiness
Though occasionally
He speaks of pain.
Occasionally the kingfisher
Down the wasting waters of his mind.
We are surprised.
He is content
Dozing among the cobwebs.
He is not waiting for death.

SYDNEY SWANN – BLACKSMITH

Through the furnace
He fashioned the new,
Mended the broken,
Renewed the old
By flame and hot coals.

Horses he shod,
Wagons too;
Ploughshares he forged,
Coulters,
Tine harrows he made
To walk true.

Till time tired of the old slow ways
And he retired
To till the garden soil,
Watch
His rabbits graze
And the sons he sired
Mend motor cars.

Now is his end
A new beginning
As through the furnace
This man of iron goes,
Broken, mended,
Old, renewed,
Fashioned new,
His metal tested,
Through flames,
He walks
True.

LONELY WOMAN

Bread
Is what I never eat.
I buy it just for visitors
And when it wastes
I feed it to the ducks
Often these days.

CHEERS ! ERNEST

Ernest celebrated
His eighty third birthday;
Early to the pub to set a base of Guinness
For the thirteen rum and peps to come
(He wasn’t superstitious about drink)
From friends who sat beside
And talked.
Oh, yes, he’d scrounge from strangers,
Tell them the tale of the Somme
And how many landlords he’d seen
In and out the pub door
But this last Sunday
He bought all his company a round,
Counted the change to see no one was missed.
Silent debts paid;
The ground was waiting;
A coach trip to Bridlington
And home to bed.

He never woke,
Even the hospital could not rouse him;
Ernest is dead.

“Passed away,”
As those “friends” who rarely spoke
Would say.
They all want to chip in now
For a big wreath,
A laurel smile to accompany a coffin,
A corpse.
Not Ernest’s way.
He lived for the day.
“Spend the money on a free round
For t’other old beggars,”
He’d have said,
“They need cheering up
With all their aches and pains.”

Wreaths are no more than daisy chains
That children make,
Make believe,
Forget life is reality,
Dreams hid in black chiffon
To mask the guilt
Of past silences.

Cheers ! Ernest.
You’ve made the life
They’ll never make.

LES BRAMLEY

He had always time to listen,
Always time for a little smile,
Always time to say,
“Now wait a minute,”
Always time to reconcile.

His opinions were considered.
His words were kind and wise.
He tempered law with justice
Where the law let justice rise.

He was one who was fair in judgement
Who was fearless for the right
Who saw that the oppressed and weak
Were lent his gentle might.

Now he stands in the judgement place,
Let us so address the judge this day,
“We present before you a man of justice,
A fair, just man, we say.”

BENT GRILLE

A dove moans its hollow sibilance of love
In the antlers of a dying oak;
The snowflakes of a Spring storm
Fleck the grey sky;
The Hare’s form
Is empty.
In the churchyard
A freshly dug grave awaits a child;
A mechanic straightens a bent grille;
Faces that smiled
Are still.

BIKE

Flooding from the factory gates
A mass of tubular metal,
Rubber,
Wire
Carefully ordered
Each into a bicycle,
Each bears a jostling human figure,
Both passenger
And motive power,
Legs winding
Self-chained to whizzing wheels
Purring on the wet road,
Twisting in and out
As they escape
To re-fuel
For further labours
And machine bound locomotion;
As they escape
To the solitary few at home,
The silence of human tongues,
To rest,
Not aching bones
But aching ears
As they still shout
Above the absent loom.
But soon
This silent machine for freedom
Will bring them
Peace.

FLOTSAM

Dead,
On the beach at morning,
Creatures from the sea,
A crab,
A gull,
Its lurid beak gaping,
Once flying,
Crying
High above the cliffs,
Now flotsam
In the morning
Washed
Free.

FRIARS

In shrouding mist of dawn
Grey geese,
White geese
Waddling, wading,
Solemnly parading
In solid phalanx,
Slouching feet trailing
Round the apse of pond,
Muttering Lauds in monotone,
Fransciscan
And Carmelite
Under the open arch of sky.
Repel
The pagan night.

HOLIDAY HARBOUR

Ozone, fish and chips, harbour mud,
Smoke drifting among red roofs in wisps,
Seaside scents like gulls
Glide silently through nostrils
Perching on the precipice of memory
While the twice daily mop and bucket tidy tide
Washes away the soft sand souvenirs
Forgotten by hundreds of holiday makers,
Paper kiss-me-quick hats, candy floss sticks,
Empty cans.

The man on the pier end puffing his pipe
Still sees,
In the dusk,
The twinkle of starlight in the amusement arcade,
Still hears
The raucous serenade
Of the bingo caller
As far out to sea
Ship lights dim,
A horn bellows
And banks of fog
Billow in
Closing curtains
On the town.

LAMENT

Light and love cannot reach this day,
Only memory is here to play
As the sad air bears a song
That fades away,
Far away, far away
So I cannot hear
And here I must stay
Alone.
I am not grown to maturity;
I am a child that weeps
When a doll is broken,
When a plastic toy of humanity is destroyed
Because it was my joy
That it was mine.

LIFE AFTER DEATH

Never look behind you when you leave;
Never say, "Goodbye."
Remember me not as I am,
A rotting, paraplegic hulk
Wrecked on the rocks of time
But as I was.
So shall I live
The life I lived
As long as you shall live,
As long as memory shall give me life
In you
And in your children
Whom you tell of me;
In all of you
I shall attain
Immortality,
Eternal youth
Till the last ember fade
Ash in the wind
Of the grey sky
And forgotten
Then
I am dead.

KERNEL OF SILENCE

From the kernel
Green leaves, black bark and blossom,
Chestnut white,
Laburnum gold,
Lilac, cherry, apple
Unfold,
Shelter,
Shade,
Feed.

In my mind
There is a kernel
That sees silence,
Like the heat rising on a summer day,
Through the glass
Gazing on green fields
Waving slowly in the wind,
The hawk hovering,
The passing gull
Sailing over a silent sea.

I love
The sight
Of these.
They are more to me
Than all sounds
Deaf years
Have silenced.

SUDDEN DEATH

No pain,
No conscious thought
If I could 'phone,
If I could reach the wall
To knock,
Just death
That took away the last breath
As the first had brought life,
No fear,
No strife,
Switched off
In mid-sentence,
No difference
Being alone
Or in a crowd,
The swift shroud
Is an isolation
That unites
All.

SUNSHINE, SUNSHINE.

Beneath the white tower
On the hill,
Built to hold water,
The land bleeds
Over withered stems
Of weary, drought-ripe ears,
Barely
Barley,
Unseasoned,
Empty.

No lapping green waters
Rain away
The blood.
Poppies live on dust,
In cool
Of cloudless evening,
Rust.

THE CROW

"Jesus loves me. This I know."
I could not see a human voice.
There was a crow.

"Get off my shoulder, Crow,"
I cried.

It flew away.
I wept
And died.

THINKING ABOUT IT

Thinking
Of the sword of death
As a blunt saw
Dragging
Its teeth
On the skull,
Grating
Slowly
Through
The brain,
There is a peculiar horror
In the remotness
Of dying alone,
Pulling rubbed raw limbs
Over burning sands,
Helpless,
Toward an unknown,
Unseen
Precipice
Of if;
If there was help
I may not go;
If death
Come quick
I may not know;
If
There
Is
An end.

WINDY NIGHT

As though in heart of thunder cloud I lay,
The wind rumbling
Down the brick canyon of the village
Snatching tile and slate,
Shouldering chimney pots,
Clutching at pansies,
Tearing trees;
Pulling, pushing,
Riving, roving,
Testing.

That a little breeze
Should grow to giant gale
Brawling, belching,
Rude and arrogant
To frighten little children,
Demolish old men's
Dreams.

ANT COLONY

Bereavement made her mad;
She could not bear to live there
Where she had not been alone.
She left
To return again
And leave
And return.
The memories burned her
And yet she burned to return
Whenever she was away.
The garden overgrew;
The ants colonized;
The brown grass
Jungled weedily
Standing hayed and hid
The flowers that had cheered her garden.

At last, quaking to break,
The seal on the deed
Broke the seal
That held her.

The grass was cut.
Next year
The flowers grew
And no one knew
The pain that created dereliction.

The ants had been poisoned.

CONFESSION

My love is dying
I know.
I want to see her
But I do not want to
"Come out",
"Go public".
I want to sneak in,
Speak softly
And gently sneak out.

But everyone wants to come.

I can only face it alone.

I stay away
And pray
Hoping that some strange sense
Will tell her why.
And when she dies
I still cannot face
All those faces
As the earth receives her
And she rests at last.

Life makes us all prisoners
In a zoo
And apart from "the valley of death"
The escape routes are closely guarded.

One day I shall visit
Where she sleeps,
Weep privately
And no one will know
That we have spoken.

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

When children die
We weep a little more.
We imagine the best
In store.
Past time has not had chance
To exert the raw
And prove life
Long
And empty.

RENEWAL

The slim sickle moon,
The sky part mown
For Venus' star above to shine,
A swathe of dark clouds far
Against a headland.
This month is a new time
To plant a new vine
In the terrace of the mind.
The warmth is rising in the earth
And what was old and winter
Is spring and summer.
It will not be long before we drink the wine
Together
And laugh again.

WOMAN IN THE CROWD

You can see she will know sorrow;
Her eyes don't catch the light;
They stare above the conversation;
A song hums in her head;
Her hand wanders to her mouth
To insert an absent cigarette.
Only her teeth smile
And her cheeks, high on the bone
Are ready to droop, melt, flatten,
To be washed away.
Time is not on her side
Whoever the man that stands there.

High on the cheek of the moor
The bone of rock breaks through,
The slim beck tumbles down the face,
Bruised purple by the heather,
Blackened by the burning.
The moor is crying;
You can hear her crying
As the curlew flies.
Sorrow is on the wind.
Time is not on her side
Whoever the man that stands there.

The street is cold in the early hours;
The windows don't catch the light;
They stare above the silence;
Only the tread of her lonely feet
Hum in her head,
Hand wandering to steady her smile
As, drooping on the kerb of bone,
She meets her time
And the staring man
Stands still.

INSIDE THE MAIDEN'S HEAD

(Written at Mallyan Spout)

Standing inside the maiden's head,
The green branches of her thoughts
Intertwine
And there is the sound,
Always the sound
As the fine fronds of her silver hair
Fall down behind.

I try to look out of her head;
I can only see her hair.
I am in her mind;
Imprisoned in her mind.
I am cool and clear.
I am amid the moss grown rocks,
Slippery
But I am sure.

There is creation and endurance here,
The soft shaping of rocks in the summer;
The mighty re-arrangement of shapes in winter;
The gentle growth of green ferns
And the sound,
Always the sound
Of the life force.

I want to stay forever
Imprisoned
In the twined branches
Inside
The maiden's head.

CHILDREN OF LIGHT

Squirming under the big belly of night,
Ridden by fear,
Dazzled to wing tremors
By the occasional light,
Starlings swarming,
Arcing, swirling
From roost to rest
In one surge
At a slight sound.

We lie on this river bank
After currents have swept us
In and out of the rocks and whirlpools.
We are still spinning;
Creatures made weak

But when night rises,
What a dawn!

The starlings will sweep away
To war on grubs in leather jackets
And we will fish the still water,
Watch the heron

Paint pictures,
Caress smooth stones at the water's edge,
Children of light, after all,
Who were afraid
In the dark.

LONG NIGHTS SHORT DAYS

We sit by the fire and talk to each other:
You do not hear what I say;
Your head is full of the waves pounding on the shore,
Scooping the cliffs keel
Where no birds wheel and cry in the long dark
Only the clouds streaming across the moon
Carry your thoughts
To battle.

I only see you as you were long years ago
Before the nights, each a winter long,
Drew your mind to envy Odin's daughters.
I do not hear your wolf cries for dead heroes;
I do not heed you when you stare at the flames
And shriek for the death wolf rising.
I humour you as you sharpen my old arrows,
Twine a bow string from your hair
With low incantations.
The blue frost flickers in your mind
And I want to carry you again to my ship,
To journey for trade now,
To face the challenge of the long voyage to Spain,
To Vinland, new discoveries.

Too late.
When I was at war,
A viking,
You had to stay,
No place for women,
But your wild will would have made you a man.

You know your waste of years
And rock by the fire.
Tomorrow you say you will go to the cliffs
And, with your hair blown in the gale,
Will see the wolf rise again
From the gorse.

My hand will not reach you
As my tongue fails now
And you will plunge into the deep boat
And ride for Odin,
Sing
As you sang once for me.

DEAD SAILORS

Each wave that rides the flat ocean,
Clawing its way to land
White fingers gouging rocks and clay,
Climbing ashore
Never gaining a sure grip,
Falling away,
Washing away the finger hold
Of each successive comrade,
Battling against each other
Until, exhausted, they drown
And the sea is calm,
Each wave
Is a drowned sailor
And the calm
Is when they sit at the Sea God's table
And toast his maidens
And sleep
In a dream without dreaming
Driven by fast oars
To eternal glory
In strange seas
Where the merest breeze fills the sail
To ease their aching.

There is no waking
Except to ride the flat ocean
Clawing and gouging
At the cliff face
To return to the lost shore.

A MUTUAL HEALTH SERVICE

While traffic intensely intersects the point
With squeal and gush
Going nowhere important
Every morning
The old man walks his dog
Around the ring road roundabout.
Brown ears pricked for trouble,
In his shaggy white coat
He is the caring convenience,
Doctor and friend;
The old man is his dependent patient
Perambulating
The remaining core of life.

THIS TIME

The flames flare round the mast timber,
A light breeze bears another dead viking
Out to sea;
The wolf howls in dark forests,
Clouds fly across the moon
In raven shapes
And white maiden fingers of waves
Carry up the hero
To sleep and wake,
Carouse and fight
And die
And wake, carouse and fight
Until the wolf breaks
And consumes the gods,
Frees men
To create other gods
Too late
To save them from the orange sky,
The brief, bright last light
To be followed
By perpetual night
Longer than many arctic winters
And as cold.
Only the young wolves will survive
To suckle men
Who, under a new dawn,
Create their own legends,
In time,
Become gods
To bind men
And wolves
Till they gain strength,
Invent tricks,
To break the bonds
Once more.

Meanwhile the embers of the viking ship
Sink hissing in the sea
And you turn and weep on my shoulder.
I raise your face
And we kiss for the first time.

WALKING IN THE STORM

You jumped over the mud as we walked
And startled a blackbird.
The flood nearly claimed it.
You said you were sorry.

Gold you said.
Chaff I said
As a shower of finches
Rose and fell four inches
Among the tree roots.

Not even a bird could fly in that wind.

You cried as your hair whipped your eyes
And laughed
As you clasped me for warmth.

The worst of weather,
Floods, mud, raging and roaring:
Ten
Happy minutes
On the edge of freedom.

END OF RAINBOW

Driving along in the driving rain,
Deep puddles dragging wheels,
Puddles that reflect the dark light,
Unclear images of fading weals
Leaving a dragging pain.

There is crying in the wind
But the beautiful promise
Emblazons the black clouds,
The multi-coloured bow
That makes men create myths
Of gold,
Solution to all their problems,
At its illusive,
Elusive end.

Promise of no more pain,
No more crying,
Cheering, hopeful,
Full filled with full colour,
The Sun is not within our view,
Only dark clouds
And that bow.

And when the clouds go
There is a clear, blue sky.

No rainbow.

IN THE WOOD

In the wood
The dead man rises from the leafmould,
Looks about his new world
Where a fistful of pills
And gin
Have brought him.
They used to call it 'sin'
But at twenty six he is too young to remember that.
Now they call it
Social Service,
One less on the dole,
One less black hole
Of no job,
No face
For anyone to recognise.
He is his own man now,
No more eating,
No more queueing.
He can wander freely
Leaving his carcasse
To the Coroner
And the post mortem knife
To cut flesh
That never knew life
Before
This awakening.

WOLDS WAY

The brittle bite of the thin wind;
The flint people bent against the steep land;
The occasional glint of spark in eye
When the harsh jest of ale and iron speech
Clip together.
We travel down the cart wide road,
Ewes and lambs embossed above us
Where the land bleeds white through the grass
Grasping a faInt hold against eroding centuries,
Thixendale, Fimber.
The Dane hid here from times turnings,
Farming, making a fold against Winter,
War and the future.
The valley wall is the only fortification needed
Against inquisitions of successive ages
Heeding the call to progress.
Here the whinbush and woodcock,
Fox and hare stare at the motor car,
A chimera raping their haven with obscene haste,
A raucous outburst
In the fine tune of their ancient symphony,
Oppressing, molesting, threatening.
The flint cut on the foot,
The bite of Winter,
These they can bear,
Have born for centuries
But the bare anal sounds and smells
Of this "Thing"
Travelling through
They must fear,
Not for itself,
But as a sign, a portent
Of things more potent
To sweep away
This world,
Their world
Suspended,
Bright
In the bight of the wind.

WASHING LINE

The first breath of morning dries dew from the trees,
Hanging, limp on the line still dizzy from the washer,
A family gathering,
Scarred jeans, a fishing smock, green T-shirt, jersey frock.

Thirty miles away among the rocks
Two pairs of jeans lay side by side
While four bare legs raced across sands
To challenge the waves,
Soaring young birds
Flying but flying without the wild sad call
Or angry cry that age, passing for maturity, can bring,
Theirs was a song that only the young can sing.

In the summerhouse at garden end
Smock rubbed against desk
As keys fished words from letters
That fingers hammered from anvil of mind.

The distant telephone ringing in the hollow home
Just snatched in time.
Green shirt, camouflage, creeping through the cool garden, evening.

Suddenly,at the summerhouse door
The enemy confronts the peasant labouring in the field.
The menace, the hesitation of the green soldier
Before he pulls the trigger of voice
And the bullets
Thud, thud, thud,
Thud, thud, thud
As rockets pass through galaxies,
Once launched, beyond recall bound for infinity.

Now, the jersey frock, once worn already washed,
Black as the back of the windgull sweeping under the overhang,
Searching ,
The blue jeans marred with the scar of sharp rocks sawn by the sea,
The green flack jacket T-shirt, unmarked,
Wring memories.

"I've something for you to write about, Dad," he said.
"While you sit in your summerhouse
Real things happen to us.
Your daughter, my sister is...."

And the first breath of morning dries....

HARRY MANNERS

The cold rain lips the tramp's face.
There is a perpetual refrain in his life.
As he pushes his pram,
His old dog riding the roads,
As every day,
Raises a quizzical eyebrow
When walking is suggested.
He eats before the old man
And after him he takes the scraps.
A partnership without the mishaps of marriage.

Work is where the man finds it
When he needs it,
A friendly farmer with a few bales of fodder to fork,
A pub landlord with crates to carry,
His food and drink are paid as found,
His bed and board a barn, a stack
And on bad days
A hedge back
When he gives thanks
For the invention of plastic sacks.

Round roads that bow and buckle
By ground greens, sky greens
To purple penned edge of moor
He perambulates the ring that bounds his freedom
Held in from the anywhere he might fly
By the invisible arachnoid threads
Of passing friendship, familiarity

And of course,
His dog barks a warning
Everytime he is minded
To turn away.

TEMPLE OF THE FOUR WINDS

I contemplate my thinning hair
In the willow watchword of the pig iron past
And reflect on the glass image of the churn
Milk white on the stand
That stands not still
For the gliding time
Wood wailing on the forever stream.

The dream is walling up logic leaves,
Their veins dissect the diurnal passing
Of tall ships
On forgotten seas,
The weed wound wound of reason
Throbs through another night
And the sight of fractured patterns
Is the paternoster in another garden
Where black bushes black berried
Bury the dying,
Burn the living,
Quails eggs quenching quiet
With a loud hiss of repeating history,
Bread and water
Slack upon the table of an ancient kitchen
Kniving up the moment
Of the present,
A placid, flaccid portrait
Flaking in the four winds

THE KING OF THE REAPERS IS DEAD

The swash of the scythe no longer sounds

The overture opening the opera of the harvest field.
Even the rattle of the binders of my bygone days,
The clatter as sheaves were shot for stooking,
Is no more the encore in the long late evenings;
No more the hiss of the steam engine,
The thrashing noise of threshing
Making eyes sore with clouds of chaff:
Now the combine with broadbeam cut,
The closed cab,
The harvest in one
As the pale pile folds to machine bed
And grain, as in the hourglass,
Pours into the tractor tracted cart beside.

No rest either

As the combine leaves the field
The ploughs and harrows and drills follow.
No fallow,
But straight the winter wheat is sown
And then to the lifting of potatoes,
Sugar beet;
Lambs from December
And, early as the land allows,
The spring sowing.
Now no slowing of pace,
Time for grace;
No breathing space
To enjoy the fruits,
At the roots
To spoil
The palate
With more than plenty
For all who do not
Starve
Anymore.

That poor man
Among poor men
Borne high on shoulders
At harvest home,
The King of the Reapers,
Is dead.

NEW WRITERS

They all start here
Where life is ended,
The writers new,
With pen up ended
To dig some private grief
Into a page.
With tears and sometimes rage
They scribe away their pain
To open up a wider stage
Where they can walk
Upright again
And see with brightened eyes
And show that lies
Can be forgotten
When death dies
And mason's art creates
From fresh stone
A face that's free
From the decay of flesh and bone
And by ritual
These writers learn to write
Of things the other side
Of darkness
And their night.

AID

The willow weeps by the straight road;
The barbarian shelters under its boughs,
Hidden.

The halo radiates in the sun:
The dark shadow is still,
Beneath.

Beyond,
The great pool ripples
And little waves crash
Against the farthest wall
Of its shore.

Imperceptibly,
Inexorably,
The willow drinks dry.
Its weeping does not replenish
The supply.

On the straight road
You can stay
Or pass by.

TYPICALLY ENGLAND

Oh what a heap
Of cows and sheep
Under the broad oak tree
Sheltering from the summer sun
In the pasture brown
By the thistledown
And the breeze
and flies
Seen through screwed up eyes.
Oh what a heap
Of cows and sheep
Under the broad oak tree.

LOOK OUT

Between the curtains
The cat stares out
Every night
Watching.

A footfall,
It pricks its ears:
A passing car,
A turn of the head.

I sit watching
The cat.

It will not be long now
When I sit
Staring out of the window
Watching the boats in the harbour,
The summer visitors,

Passing gulls,
Those busy with life

And a cat
Sits watching me,

Waiting.

LOVERS

Over pretty print frock
Dirty hair drapes her raincoat.
Alone in the scurry of hot feet
She sits on a bench
In a square of glass and concrete reflections
Screwing up her lightly painted,
Powdered puppet face,
Giggling,
Holding negatives to the sun.

Close by her long legs
Posed in black patterned tights
Thrust into black wellingtons,
Her dog,
One ear up,
One ear down,
Watches her

Seeing
Nothing incongruous.

I'VE HAD A LOT OF MIST IN MY LIFE

Where they practice the values of Marx
Being a shopkeeper is hard;
Eighteen times they broke in,
Stole my living
But they could not steal me.

My Garden kept me sane
With straight paths I made.
I kept the road in flowers
Breeding roses.
Their colours shone through
And left me clear of debt.

Even in fifty eight
When one hundred and fifty
Died in the mine
There was a rose for every one,
Every one watered
By the drifting mists.

MOTORCYCLIST

My world has no edges

Only the pulse of the road
The open sky
The sunset
The dawn
Dark clouds
Blue veins
Fresh scents
Foul smells
New hay
Freshly spread dung
My head
Close to
Singing wheels
A single note of mind
Played on the frissant string of death

Not for me
The frame
That makes a picture of the world
A chocolate box
That safe sheltered inside feeling
Where air sound smells
Are filtered
And force fed
By fans
Through ducts
Where no tears are allowed

I
Am free
To flash
Through
The gateways
Of chance
By swaying
In the rush
Of the wind
My world
has
no
edges

RAGNAROK
There is no heart
Where the grey goose flies
In the setting Sun
Where the stretched snow lies
To the cold World's edge
And the sedge
Crackles crisp
In the wind.

There is no heart
Where the grey goose flies
As horse clouds ride
The flare of moon
Where the sisters sing
Their long lost lay
And on this day,
This day
The night explodes
And there is no heat,
No heat

In the blasting wind
Where the grey goose flies
When the grey goose flies.

REASON

Between green banks,
Knickerbockered knees gnawing through air
Rotating the pedals as if every push was a protest
Against past years wasted
In his particular prison kitchen
As a steaming slave
To the conventions of roofs and eating,
The drugs of family life,
Grey whiskered,
Now he can hear the cuckoo
Without looking at the clock,
See the Sun
Without seeking the dial,
Every revolution of his own legs
Spins him freely forward
With no other purpose
Than breathing the breeze
And smiling.

'SMOKE GETS IN MY EYES'

All my pleading
Cannot match
The matchlight
In your eyes
When you get that craving

You must be raving!
Striking off the years
At every stroke!

And the tears in my eyes
Are not just the smoke
But regret that
Our years together
Are shortened
Every time
You light
Another
Cigarette.

WHEN IT MATTERS MOST

It's late,
The final set.
The bar is nearly empty
And emptying,
The music
Is at its best,
The flute like honey on the air
Then a request,
'Strangers in the night'.

I cannot quite see
The light,
Hear the brightness
In the voice
For friends in the light
Can be forever
Strangers
When it matters most,
Strangers in the night.

CROSSING BRIDGES

The bridges in Bedford
Are pale green
At night,
Their reflected arches
As pale as moonlight
In the in the mirror of Ouse.

The peel in the steeple
Rounds out
Resounding on practice night
While traffic slides
Past the Town Hall.

There is an abundance of cut stone
Stained by time,
Pale limestone
And trees
Turning to Autumn.

St. Paul's Square,
Horne Lane,
Harpur Street,
Where I walk,
There is substance
About the place,

Even the shopping arcade
Is behind a neo-gothic facade
Opposite the confident columns
Of the Corn Exchange.
This is a county town
Built on the prosperity
Of an age
Past,
No more.

Now, behind the monoliths
Of the 1950's
Some shoot heroine,
All registered
And beyond the law,
Throw stones for fun at windows
That ask to be broken.
This is their protest
To an order
That does not regard
Its citizens beyond the Charter.

Now the bell tolls,
The peel has ended.
Now we weep
For times
Amended.

A DOG BEGAN TO BARK

He sang about 'The Veteran'
And a dog began to bark.
He sang about 'The Veteran'
And a dog began to bark.

Back in the days long gone,
In the jungles of Vietnam
When the silences were deadly,
The only sound a cocking gun
And you were never much alive
Where the jungle leeches thrive
And suck away your blood.

And he sang about 'The Veteran'
And a dog began to bark.
He sang about 'The Veteran'
And a dog began to bark.

The jungles never far away
When you've been there and back
And they tell you you're the lucky one
And only you know the pack
You carry all around the world
Every time you hear a new banner is unfurled
To soak away your blood.

He sang about 'The Veteran'
And a dog began to bark.
He sang about 'The Veteran'
And a dog began to bark

When the dogs begin to bark
Then that's the time to leave the town
For the game is up and the gang plank down,
They're marching up and they're sailing round
To make another burial ground
And the earth will drain away young blood
Then the dogs again will bark.

He sang about 'The Veteran'
And a dog began to bark.
He sang about 'The Veteran'
And a dog began to bark
And dogs will bark
Till we reach a land
Where no dogs bark,
Till we reach a land
Where no dogs bark,
Till we reach a land
Where no dogs bark.

LOSING MY MAGIC SUNSETS

I'm losing my magic sunsets
When I leave you
But I'm exchanging for the dawn.

For a long time we've sat and watched the Sun go down,
Watched from orange fire glow to purple shade,
A long time, for a long time when the Sun was on the rim
Of our horizon.

I'm losing my magic sunsets
When I leave you
But I'm exchanging for the dawn.

We used to sing in the twilight
When all the sky burned red.
We used to stay till the last spark had fled.
Now all that's left is twilight,
No sunsets any more
And dead
The spark that made them magic.

I'm losing my magic sunsets
When I leave you
But I'm exchanging for the dawn.

Without you I'll go and seek the dawn
Round the other side,
A new morning, a new day,
Be new born and young again,
Watch the pale Sun come up and light the sky,
A cool first light that will grow to warm old bones,
A second life before I die.

I'm losing my magic sunsets
When I leave you
But I'm exchanging for the dawn.

ELEGY FOR A MARINER

The sound of the sea and the gulls is ended.
No more the crash of wave on shore,
The soaring, circling, plaintive cry,
The sigh of the wind in the sail,
The sudden beat of wing near mast,
The rigging is empty and there is a drifting
Without masthead light, in the darkest,
Moonless night. The Marie Celeste was
Less empty than we are now,
No hand on the tiller in this ship of life
That has to plough on through storm
And tempest without the best navigator
In our fleet. The deep ocean has
Called him home, no more to roam
With us from port to port.
He has found his final harbour unsought;
He has gone ashore for the last time
Away from the strand and now lies,
Like any landlubber, claiming
His six foot of firm earth,
A dry dock for a ship never to be repaired,
Never to sail again and the only sound
The ghost of a wind whistling in the shrouds.

SILENT LOVE

There is no loneliness like silent love;
Love that may not declare itself;
Love that cannot bear itself;
Love that dare not.

There is no loneliness like silent love;
Love that churns the stomach's pit;
To love and never speak of it;
To love within and smile without
When all you want to do is shout it out
But should you shout away she'd fly,
A blue angel way out in the sky.

No use to cry after her;
No use to cry, no use to cry
And yet you die within,
Feel like turning to the wall,
Alone and derelict.

There is no loneliness
Like silent love.

MUSIC

Music is the mother's hand that salves the hurt,
The fluid filler of the shattered mind
Burst from love unkind.

Music is the mellow peace between

The owl's screech, the foxed pheasant's cry.
It is the strong arm clawing the floating soul
Back to the green river bank when,
Swept away with loves tears,
It is about to die.

Music is the angels wing lifting
The wounded lover from fatal fall,
The strong draught to save the sick.
Music is the sunlight shining
When the day breaks bleak.

Music is my love's voice
That starts the pain
In which I have no choice
But cry for the music
Which is the mother's hand
That salves the hurt.

RIVER AT RUSWARP

Lap, slap, slapping against the bow,
Rowing downstream against the wind,
Alder and ash, willow, the gentle spalsh
Of the oars, a green river, a grey sky,
Fish rising to the fly, punctuated by
The sigh of distant traffic.

Here I let my mind drift, this summer afternoon,
A place of memories, of many loves in many years
Silent, a place of solemn tears, now
A place I'll never see with you, forever
Flown away. As the Sun breaks through
A little of the blue reflects these thoughts of you
In this green place where space is confined,
Banked in, flanked but seeming flows forever.

Yet I return still, looking for lost life
In the dark pools of timeless water.

ALNMOUTH REVISITED

This is an estuary that runs between the sandbanks at low tide,
The bobbing boats hide under the summer sun,
Seem unwilling to face the sparkling sea.

On the hill, a solitary Cross looks down on dunes
From where the Village Church once stood asking a question,
"What good was masonry to save the Christian God's
Haven from the Pagan Sea God's wrath?"

Far out, on the Island, the Lighthouse winks its warning
As the fog of evening drifts in to thicken for the morning
When those who rise frantic, before the sun has burned it away,
Flounder to find their way at dawn.

And, as for me, I am, at this moment, all three:
At sea yet unwilling to face the sea, under a pagan spell
Possessed and adrift in a fog where evening and dawn
Have mingled and been blown apart by gentle winds

That, like tides, wash away the drifting sands
Flowing down the estuary of life to the sea,
Piped longingly home by the oyster catcher's plaintive call,
Longing for what cannot be, after all, as time grinds all to sand.

AN OLD MAN'S PRAYER

I am not thinking of death,
Simply legs, bottoms and breasts
Perhaps this is no way to prepare
To meet my Maker.

Call me a dirty old man if you like
But at least I appreciate His work.
I never did shrink in my duty
To admire his best so why
Can't I slip into oblivion
With Woman as a final vision
To carry with me on the journey.

Some say you carry your own
Heaven with you as you go.
Pray for me that it is so
That I may die as I have lived
Loving to my very loins and soul
God's greatest creation.

ORANGE CAT

The orange cat sat on the wall
In the warm summer sun, every day, all day
Waiting for the birds to come

But, with soft fur and loud purr,
It only dreamed of feathers and fun,
Never stirring long enough to do more
Than nothing at all, except sleep.

But then one day a loud "Cheep!" by its jowl
Caused it to open one eye and spy
A creature with wings and beak.
" What a cheek!" was the first thought
That entered the orange cat's fuzzy mind
But this cat, of all cats, was not unkind,
Fantasy was one thing, action another
Really it preferred to gather flowers in Spring
And listen to the birds sing than do anything
Like head and de-wing them.

So, it uttered a loud sigh
Hoping the bird would see its folly and fly
But the bird hopped on to the head
Of the orange cat and started to pull out hair
Before launching itself into the air
With a bright lining for its nest.
The orange cat sat up, sat down
And resumed its rest on the wall
In the summer sun, purring with zest
And after all the dreams that were stories
And the stories that were dreams
Made for a pleasant peace that was best.

YOU CANNOT RUN

You cannot run when Death's cold clutch
Has torn your love away. Even the swift
Must yield, to Death, the day.

You cannot run when Death has past the post.
You that have lost all, cannot recoup your loss,
Can only stand and watch and count the cost.

There is no comfort if you run away to chase or hide
For Death is life and in life you still abide
And still must till you, in turn, are called.

Cold comfort in the Winter to sit still:
Cold comfort if you, in Winter, run
And, exhausted, fall. Better to keep slowly

Moving on and on the move keep warm.
Keep warm with memories in the hearth of home that,
Kindled by the flame of love, first all consuming,
Soon turns to slow, glowing embers in the grate,
The ash that drifts upon the draught
You cannot run to catch.

You cannot run when Death's cold clutch
Has torn your love away,
Even the swift must yield,
To Death, the day.

WHEN DISASTER STRIKES

When disaster strikes, sudden and sharp,
Is life the dream of a night
And death the day?

The ever moving earth, the flash flood,
The madman's bullet, the assassin's knife,
The freedom fighter's bomb, the many
Outrageous acts by men for good causes
When the watching world pauses
In its turning round, its turning round,
Where is the dream, where is the day
When God, it seems, has looked away?

If life is dream and dream is life
Then is there need to fear Death's knife,
However sharp, however swift to strike?
For, be this so, then life is death
And death is life for ever more.

SHEEPISH NOTIONS

Sheep are often found in hedge backs, bloated,
Four legs pointing stifly to the sky.
This is not the way I'd like to die.
I'd rather the shepherd found me in new pastures
After I'd broken through the thorn hedge,
The dew of a new dawn on my fleece,
Peacefully chewing the cud of fresh grass,
Not stuck immobile on some boundary.

When it comes to pass, I want to pass
From this field to some other greener field
In which to spend another life, eternity, whatever.
Whatever forever whatever.

ON THE EDGE

I'm living on the edge, sitting on the wall
Waiting for Humpty Dumpty to come along
And help me fall, give me a push
That will send me spinning
Into a stall roll out of the sky.

I'm living on the edge, sitting on the fence.
The distance to the ground is immense
But sooner or later I'll have to go
Tumbling down, broken, hidden
In a great black mound.

We all live on the edge waitIng for the push,
The cold rush of air, the dizzy dash
And then, oblivion. Until we feel
The gentle hands to wake us,
Heal us, put us together again,
Placing the pieces edge to edge,
Pledging, with prayer, to put us
Up again on the wall waiting
To fall, living on the edge.

ORCHARD LESSON

It is a good season for fruit. The apple boughs are bent in taught bows.
The damson trees sweep the orchard grass with deep purple bloom.
We gather the windfalls for the geese and with friends we gather
To pick the ripe fruit that falls to hand with gentle touch.
Still much is left for the birds to feast on and fatten for winter.

We have had poor years, bad even, when frost has caught the blossom
Or strong winds swept the pollen quite away. In the orchard
All is like a play, a stage where all life is paraded, its hopes, its fears,
Success and failure as a perpetual cycle and, as we sit after the harvest
And toast each other with wine, share our communal meal of cheese,
It cheers us to know that this year is good, "a reward", we claim,
For those that were not so and this thought helps us, with friendship,
To endure life's lows, enjoy life's highs and to know that misfortune
Fades when plenty comes and that with good wine, good company,
Joy inures and so we see that, with sturdy trees, we do not reap
What we sow but more what wild Nature allows or disallows
To grow and prosper. So with humankind success and failure,
Life and death, are by frosts and winds and sun and rain designed,
Defined and to this, ultimately, we must be resigned so we may
Enjoy and rest with peace in mind, with peace of mind.

GENTLE ART

The gentle art of lightly dying
Takes a lifetime to learn.
First there are the yarns to spin
From the first day of conception,
Learning lies in the womb,
Practising not to scream
With first breath and,
From that moment of failure,
We keep on trying, trying
Till the light dies and
We have no more learning to do,
No more trying as we succeed,
Unnoticed, much practiced
In the gentle art, lightly dying,
Breaking the last thread.

I DO NOT REMEMBER. I DO NOT FORGET.

Sometimes we photograph our favourite places,
A small encapsulation of a moment in time.
Sometimes we buy a painting, as large as life
With spirit, emotion, more than a mere
Figurative representation of form without soul

And why do we need these permanences on

Paper and canvas but that human memory
Is fickle, fades, the mind's eye goes blind
With age and those faces we knew so well
Fog, as do their voices; ears are even less
Reliable as memory banks, for life moves on.

It must, for that we give thanks in a world
Where nothing lasts forever and we continue
And those we love, have loved are as ephemeral
As we are mortal, moving from time to time
Along a line of passage where but for
The clicking camera and the painter's brush
All would be a sigh, a glance, a glimpse
Forgotten in the rushing by.

A DREAM COME TRUE

Have you ever had one of those flying dreams?
Well, he is flying on full power now
Over the green gardens flush with summer,
In between the trees like a swift,
Over the castle wall and through the high wires
On a tight turn twisting and soaring
Beyond the pull of leaden life of
Human kind; he has the sight of a hawk now,
Not the blind, narrow vision of the earthbound.

His paradise is the freedom of the skies,
The power of his belief in his ability
To flight his hereafter, which is no fantasy.
His strong wings have borne him over
And away, fading, a speck in the blue
Only leaving the memory of a shape
Against the sky of a clear morning.

MIDDAY ON THE TERRACE

She reads a book, cigarette smoking in hand,
Irritating passive membranes to crawl sideways
Into cramped corners to cough alone.
She is shaded by trees that have cast their shadows
For two hundred years dappling the terrace where
The water drifts down an urn from a fountain,
Where the Dragon Tree, grey in the Sun,
Is the Ancient One, seeing others pass.

She is like a child with a stick poking
Everything that lies still to see if
It jumps. She cannot bear stillness
Yet one day she will be still
While the trees grow and

They will speak of her in whispers
Among the shadows on the terrace
Where the living water falls with
A gentle tune and they will say,
"She was like a child with a stick
And now she lies still, how still
She lies, forever, now, lies still.”

CARMEL AND THE ANGEL OF DEATH

Carmel saw the Angel of Death
And couldn't stop laughing.
Well, she would wouldn't she?
Those ridiculous, oversized wings,
That bobbed hair and besides
God's accolytes were not expected
To visit bars, the nun's at her
Convent school would not have
Anticipated this turn of events,

So, ill instructed she was utterly
Unprepared for what happened next,
Not for the first time in a long life
Of tortuous roads and steep inclines,
Weaving in and out of the valleys,
Some green and lush, if you'll
Pardon the pun, some not so green,
Some fun and some not so funny.

But isn't everyone's life like that?
Well, no, Carmel's life was what
She made it and not at all like
Anyone else's. Her pulse rate was
Different. So, when Carmel saw
The Angel of Death and started
Laughing the Angel was affronted
And turned back so Carmel didn't
Die and lived on to the next time,
And the next till she didn't see
The funny side of things anymore.

DISCO DANCING

She was dancing in the disco when someone shouted, "Drop dead!"
But the music was louder than the shout and she didn't hear
So she didn't and kept on drinking and gyrating to the beat.

She kept on gyrating to the life beat through three husbands
And six kids, lifting the lids on thousands of "tinnies"
And surviving. She was a survivor and she knew the way
She had to go and kept on going till one day
Someone shouted, "Drop dead!" and there was no music
To drown out the voices in her head and she just
Sank to the floor and lay there till they picked her up
And layed her out and at her funeral they played
"I will survive" and she was resurrected and is
Still dancing at the disco ' El Paradiso' where
The power is always on and they never miss a beat.

CASINO

All evening in the bar they chatted about the macabre side of death,
The twists and turns of murders and misadventures,
The crime novel view of everyday life,
Before hailing a taxi with a green light
That would take them on a free ride to the unknown.

And at the casino of their destination when they passed through the doors
And showed their passports, a whisper ran throughout the house
And eye shaded croupiers looked up from the tables for a moment
And as the two approached players moved aside letting them
Glide into the hallowed circle in that place of no time,
No daylight behind the shuttered windows.

Yet the place was familiar in this foreign country
And as they played at this table and that, the cards
Were dealt from a shoe or the wheel turned and
The ball bounced its way to silence most of
The faces were familiar as of passing acquaintances
And they felt no need to leave.

It was three days before the Police found the taxi
Burned out in a deep ravine and no bones amid the ash.

LOBSTERS

As we left the restaurant,
She pointed to the lobsters in the tank
"They do not know their fate," she said.
I said, "No more than you know yours."
"I know I will not be boiled alive and eaten,"
She replied. I was not so sure.
Times change, tastes change, politicians have
"Good ideas". With an ageing population to keep
There are ways of cutting down waste
Even if all the young die of CJD.

TOP OF THE POPS. STOP OF THE POPPING.

All you could hear was the throb of the disco
And the sound of empty bottles passing into
The garbage wagon in between the sound of
The young ones retching into the gutter
Punctuated by the silence of drug related
Deaths when the new age travellers were
Beamed up in a final ecstasy, transported
Dancing in the flashing spotlight of
A multicoloured termination.

OLD ISLANDER

He recognised the sea horizon for what it was,
Not flat like painters like to paint it
With blue skies and fluffy clouds,
Boats flying along smoothly under full sail.

He saw that it was bumpy with waves,
Gales sweeping into the island from the Atlantic,
Rainsqualls that warned you they were coming;
An old islander that had looked long
Into the distance and could read the signs.

So, when he began to cough with the final cigarette
And bleed a little with the last whisky
He gave up smoking and signed the pledge.
Yes,he could read the signs and knew
When to take action to avoid the impending storm.

But, in this case, his body had no horizon; the signs
Arrived after the weather had beaten upon the shore;
The cliffs had already fallen and been washed down
The coast when he tried to move house
And before he realised he was already
Silt shifting to a larger sea.

CURIOUS WOMAN

She could not resist asking questions although
She knew she would not want to know
The answer. She was never disappointed;
Always furious with herself and those
Who gave the answers, even after protest.

She was not stupid but had a yen for life and knowledge
That put the cat that got killed into a category of
'Laid back', 'So what!', 'Couldn't care less',
Cool cat; she had the hots for answers
Like some cats for sex;
Would not take no.

So, when someone came along, slinking
Under a black hat, one eyed, Odin-like
And said, "I was just thinking...."
She said, "What?" and he replied, "No,
You better not know." But
She pressed him for a reply

And didn't have time to scream
Or cry as she died knowledgable.

IN THE SHADOWS

People in the shadows live a little more
Than those who lie all the lives in full sun.
In the shadows there is more fun than
Stretched on a lounger by the chlorinated pool
Soaking up skin cancer, wrinkles at the very least.
Who wants to end up a crinkled cabbage
Lying limp on the slab.

The romancer who sits sipping his whisky in the shade
Tells more tales of a life he may not have lived
In some free, green glade in an undeveloped eden
And yet those who say they live in light's glare,
Bare their souls to the flare of public scrutiny
Have minds that only stare through dark glasses
On a one colour world, lacking salt, whisky without malt.

In the shadows people throw back their heads and laugh
Loud and the tequila slammers hammer out a beat
That reverberates up the lift shafts and shafts
The sun worshipping who would sleep nights.

The Sun only burns the skin, blues the steak
But, in the shadows, are people warm inside.

TANYA

Life is spent moving from here to there,
This place to that, this country to that,
A constant packing up of one's things,
Folded in wrapping with love,
Unpacking the broken tokens
Of one's life so far a constant
Moving.

And then, one moves for the last time
And decides this is where one settles down.
Still the broken pieces to unpack
But this is 'for the last time',
'Here I am and here I stay'.
I suppose death's like that,
The final resting place, the settled end.

Tanya had lived many lives in many countries
But when she was old and frail in the nursing home
She would tell the tale to her companions
Of the distant travels, most would not
Understand for reasons of age or simple
Comprehension. They had been narrow in life
Without any extension of horizon but Tanya
Would still enliven there last years of
Living with her stories and her laughter.

Now her final journey has been undertaken,
She, who has been well prepared, familiar,
For journeys will not need to pack
Her belongings or her troubles any more.
She has arrived on the final shore,
Her ultimate destination where she can
Sit back and relax.

But, this is, was, Tanya.
Won't she find it all
A dreadful bore?
Will she soon be back
Knocking on our door?

As long as in our memory she lives
She can travel with us, our
Companion, as before.

SHINING ON THE OTHER SIDE

'Ecstasy' was not the name of a drug for her,
It was life. She shimmied and cavorted her way
Throughout all her years and they were many.

At ninety years she was still giving it 'the max',
Her whole zone was animation and even when
The body slowed the mind quickened,
There never was a moment when she was
Not fully alive, until she was fully dead.

Even then she lives lively in the memory
Because her life force forces its way through
Beyond her mere temporal being into and into eternity.

She is a life whose spirit carries on, a sun
other side of Earth
Although here is night,
A light that, come the dawn,
We shall see again.

MARIA

When she left her own home and moved in with us
She was at once the Carnival Queen. Everyday
It was her task to brighten the darker days
That lie between Winter and Spring.

She would sing for us, make us laugh, dance.
This was her big chance in a life that had been,
How shall I say, 'normal', 'ordinary'; work and
Kids, kids and work and then illness
That took away her fierce independence.

But she chose her new way of life,
To be an entertainer, to make others cheerful
By example and by zest for life. For her,
When she decided the Sun shone,
The Sun shone for her and everyone

And when her light went behind that
Big black cloud of night you could still
Feel her light shining in the darkness.

THE GARDENER

He played in the garden as a child.
It was a place of order
Where he could believe it wild
If he wished it so
And be instantly safe.

As he grew he had his own garden
Where he created wild areas for the birds to sing
And formal places for his family to play and walk.
He always found peace between the trees
When he needed it, a release.

When he could no longer tend his own
And was living a cared for life with others,
Still the garden was his pleasure, even
On bad days when the rain came dancing.

Every year he watched the dying Fall
With the defiant autumn crocus
And the Winter death
With a few bravura roses flowering,
Still fighting the coming with raised spines.

And then each year he saw the rebirth
In Spring, another year until
The garden gate clicked its final click
For him as he left for other gardens
Where there is no Autumn, no Winter.

ONLY A NAME

I recognised his name in the newspaper,
There in the obituary column, no age.
"He must have been no age at all," I thought,
"What did they call his wife? Never mind,
Looks right, children, grandfather too!
How time passes by, so swift to fly
The years now."

I bust a gut to get to his funeral,
A grand affair worthy of a dead Scot,
Inspite of the cram them in crem.
A piper lead the cortege in,
The coffin draped with knightly honours.
"How old these mourners have grown,
Beyond recognition. How young the others,
Children I suppose when last we met.

The Minister tells of this "renaisance man"
Who painted, "did ceramics", "ambulance work".
I never knew but am not surprised and then
The piper leads the congregation out again
Leaving the family alone, no hands to shake,
But the Minister is there at the door to say,
"Thank you for coming," as I nod and hope
I wear an unbetraying, suitable face
Toning with grey suit, black tie.

Down the path to the car park,
Parading at my best funeral pace,
"Hello," I hear a voice behind me.
Turning, "Hello," I say to a tall man
In black with tight white hair
I thought had recognised me.
"Did you know....." he named the dead.
"I am......", another name,"her brother-in-law."
"Yes," I said and left him quickly
For the sanctuary of my car.

I did not explain I only knew the name
And had been to the wrong funeral.