In a dream of another time,
In a life so completely still mine,
The world had a soft glowing shine.
As I walked in the country lanes
My mind was rested in peace.
Beside the pathway, a seat,
Hidden by foxglove and meadowsweet,
Piled rocks from a fallen tower
Close by a bend, that in turning, I knew,
Would reveal a view of the sea.
I recall lifting you, to sit like a queen,
Wild flowers entwined in your hair.
In some scented hour long ago,
It must have been déjà vu
the red rose and the white
standing sentinel
on each side of the path
the red rose of passion
the white for purity
so it was told to me
with time the bud unfolds
they litter history
more stories must be told
how Alice met the mad ones
walking nervously alone
in there amongst the flowers
i pondered that for hours
the red queen and the white
would haunt my childhood nights
and then we went to York
and thought of Lancaster
and roses making war
i never saw such violence
shaking petals, thrusting thorns,
tattering the tender growing rose
and then the Tudors came
the doubled rose of white and red
its petals widely spread
holding all in thrall
with gold and iron rule
while it blossomed
a treasure, was The Rose
where actors took the stage
Shakespeare came of age
its name was at the heart
emblem of poets art
that blooms as nectar overflows
now, in the garden,
i plant my roses
i plant them for their scent
i plant them for all they mean to me
they guard my families ashes
i strip away the stories
watching as their gentle petals fall
full of passing glories
but every year repeating
shining out with soft simplicity
a sign of lasting love
given from above
that’s all a rose was ever meant to be
Beauty seems eternal
When the evening light casts magic
Across the waters shining mirror
Mirror of the sky above,
Eternal stars reflecting,
This too, a passing magic
Eternal lasting magic
Can’t be captured in a mirror
Yet life goes on eternal
The souls eternal magic in not reflected in my mirror
like lace these fragile flapping wings,
new born from the chrysalis, pale butterfly
drying under a yellow sun, bright burning
full of life, vibrant, short lived, time burning
stretching out its virgin wings
clinging to a tender stem, this butterfly
climbing upward to your journey, butterfly
prepare to fly away, as I, burning
with desire to touch, with care, your wings
an awful thought, lost dust, wings burning, butterfly
knowing you were coming home tonight
i resolved to bake you bread
and fill the house with warmth
i gathered driftwood from the beach
i rose at dawn to light the fire
so the dough could rise
i went down to the cellar
to find a fine red wine
i stumbled on the stair
when i came back the fire was out
the fire beside the stove collapsed
it needed swift repair
by the time i mended it
my hair was full of soot
i had to take a shower
i went out to the market next
i bought the finest cheese
and olives black and green
time was growing short by now
i sank my hand into the bowl
almost in despair
i slammed it on the board
i kneeded it, i pummelled it
and left it there to rest
i went out to the beach again
to calm my savage breast
a good bread must be blessed
the kitchen is a peaceful place
when baking scents the room
good bread is earthly grace
my mind filled with the thought of you
i conjured up your face
good bread is an embrace
returning through the garden
i picked one summer rose
to set beside your place
when you came the bread was there
with olives, yellow cheese and wine
mixed with salt sea air
blessed with love and welcome
and smiles to greet you home
good bread is like a poem
Its windows blown by wind and rain,
down the lanes where no-one came,
an ancient ruined cottage stood
with tumbled walls, close by the wood.
The cottage garden growing wild
with warring flowers unreconciled
was all a tangle, intertwined,
with paths and borders undefined
Columbine closed up the doors,
Ivy crept across the floors.
The roses grew all over-blown
Claiming all the walls their own.
Delphiniums, for summer skies,
near the solemn peonies rise.
Hollyhock o’er-towers them all
and Jasmin scents the evenings fall.
In this riotous throng of flowers
the faeries come to spend their hours.
They crown themselves with daisy chains
as sunlight spreads its last remains.
As evening falls they make their way
with gentle steps at close of day
to the bed they much prefer
beneath the sleepy lavender.
it’s a quiet early morning in springtime
rooftops arise from a gentle grey mist
the dawn streets are in silence and empty
and all in the drowsy town are asleep
it’s then i go out, in to the garden
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace, alone with the trees
it’s a quiet time of day in the summer
when the dusk starts to fade slowly away
the sun sinks behind the far distant hill
and the birds in their nests lower their songs
with an occasional voice they settle
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace, my mind flies away
it’s a quiet autumn day by the river,
a mirror, shining, reflecting the sky,
where white swans silently glide by in dreams
and the willows bow, heavy-headed,
a soft breeze makes the calm water shiver
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace, lost in the beauty
it’s a quiet winters day at the fireside
coals caverns burn in a cast iron grate
casting shadow as flames leap and fade
imagination wanders in landscapes
the world outside grows forgotten and dark
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace at the end of the day
The kid from London’s back alleys
Tagging along with his brother
Selling flowers with panache and aplomb
Lost to the eyes of his mother
Locked by the deadly machines
Rebelling against the system
Defying the ledge
Spinning close to the edge
Wild wobbler on roller skates
Expelled from the town
He followed the dusty old roads
Winding away to the distance
Poverty’s child made us smile for a while
As the world came tumbling down
People laugh at the shuffling clown
But the magic is in the pathos
prim, Victorian, grim-lipped
in black cotton and lace
such a face
made of stone and ice
but her dark, lustrous eyes
burn with such heat
intense,
wandering feet
rebellious daughter
of a Methodist minister
preaching an older tradition
burnt in witch-fire
for generations
they line up behind her,
the warrior peasants,
exploited,
delighting in word play,
aware of their ancient glories
and treasuring stories
passed down the line,
tongue to ear
ear to tongue
repeating
returned from the snows of Alaska
frost-bitten, exhausted,
helped there,
by like-minded peoples,
she returned to a British hearth
to sit in the corner
just as she sits now,
very still,
rarely speaking,
captured and framed,
staring at me through a lens
what’s the fuss about?
we’re crazy!
you want to be sane?
i’m not changing hats
or my heart
so come on Alice
let’s make a party
come and dance
while the night is here
don’t wake the sleepers
don’t trust them
they might wreck our dreams
The Dreaming Path 