High on Cader Idris’ peak, the lake,
bordered, bearded by reeds
not a ripples passes
across its silver mirrored face
the day is grey, enchanted
Arthur’s seat, a granite throne,
where I sit today, alone,
in quiet, dreaming contemplation
of golden days that may return
to bless the green land far below
”Are you here, are you there?”
my words escaping to air
the reeds sing and sigh in return
as they bow and are still again
as a wisp of a mist roles in
some people get stuck in the departure lounge
they bought a ticket because they needed to get away
tired of the same old country they wanted a holiday
but there they sit, surrounded by baggage,
imagining the home they left, they locked the door
now they wonder if they left any lights on back there
nothing but that thought keeps them sitting
it all seems so out of control
but the ticket and boarding pass are ready
tucked away in a pocket, they paid the fare
no-one is waiting at home, wishing they would come back
they are as free as a bird, yet they sit there in despair
leave the baggage and board the plane
no country is the same, go look
some are better
some worse
don’t even send a sad postcard
there’s a whole new world out there
forget the past and go
Wishing you all a safe and peaceful December
They may think we are richer than they, we in a great big mansion, surrounded by a garden and trees, they in their warm terraced houses, stretching off to the distance hills. But we who live here lead another life, as poor as any church mouse, while the mortar crumbles around us, we watch the demise of the house. We have never been rich. No one ever knows what goes on behind the walls.
The rooms are cold and draughty
We conserve our power
And wait for that fateful hour
I look from the kitchen window along the line of the street. Two cars to every house. They drive away early and come home late or walk, burdened with shopping bags, with their children in pushchairs,on skates or running, healthily on ahead. Lives and loves are portrayed on the streets. No one ever knows what goes on behind the walls.
Grandma came every Sunday
Grandma is no more.
She died of cancer last week.
I watch the students come and go, like a yearly flock of birds, to the house at the end of the street. Laughing and joking, carrying bags, the girl and the boy, their arms interlinked nudging against each other, smiling. But I haven’t seen the girl for weeks. No one ever knows what goes on behind the walls.
The boy with the broken heart
Walks slowly today
The girl preferred his best friend
Now Christmas lights fill their windows, their houses welcoming, warm, waiting for Santa Claus to fulfil all their childhood dreams. My dream is to be back in a time when our house was full. The chimney was blocked long ago. No more flickering fires. Now we await the Christmas ghost, the spirit of Christmas past. No one ever knows what goes on behind the walls.
I saw Santa Claus one night
Through a curtain chink
Sleigh bells, snow and winter stars
Every house tells its story. The streets are full of lies. No one ever knows the things that are hidden by the walls.
the summer,
always beautiful,
does not survive the storms
that winter brings
pierced with bitter icicles,
shattered hearts,
when lover part
with dreams they cannot mend
I see it every day,
a blizzard of bitter sorrow
snowflakes whirl and fly away
as lovers often do
snow drifts hide the paths we knew
banked around, too close, they hide the longer view
she was once a tight curled bud
white with an edge of tender pink
I could not see the heart
but her perfume was enticing
gently wafted on the air
with time and care she opened
a warm pink blush of petals
and now i see the heart
she is a rose that’s rare
What is a clock?
A finger pointing out the time
That’s the simple answer
Counting seconds, minutes, hours
Passing slower, passing faster
A lazy, hungry creature
Time’s elastic
Drags us on
Pulls us to the future
Strips out history away
Measures out our meter
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock
It knows nothing of the moment
Or the truth of time
It will never be my master
My clock is in my heartbeat
But what if there’s no time at all
And it’s a false illusion?
What if it repeats itself
And each beat is completer?
Or everything is overlapped?
Did we meet across some bridge,
Every meeting sweeter?
And will we pass that way again?
I’m here and there and everywhere
Without time there’s no disaster
Time is not my master
where to go
when i am lost
i know i knew
it’s somewhere there,
beneath the oak
when the rain fell
though the leaves
i heard them splash
and felt refreshed,
shaded by tranquility
shelter still beneath the sun
green light filters
reaching branches high above
reaching always for the light
clear bright veins within the leaf
an open palm, resembling mine
with this sorrow comes the sorrow
of every loss I ever had
it’s a pool of hidden depths
full of hidden weeds, obscured
is this the same for those occasions
when I’m glad? do i recall a well of joy?
gladness seems to stand alone
no predictions and no source
I know too well the ebb and flow
joy transcends all of itself
that moment like a rising wave
that bubbles up with light and air
today I cannot turn the tide
I sleep the sleep of constant loss
I’m sick with sad complexities
and all the tears I ever cried
if love were simple, as I think,
this stream would never lead
another sorry sigh away
but would swim me back again
Long ago in Timbramil
There lived a princess fair
Upon a lofty hill she dwelt
A crown adorned her hair
Her name was Princess Tourmaline
She rarely ventured out
So little had she seen of life
She never went about
One day her fathers Squire came by
He persuaded her to go
And look about the world a bit
Her agreement was quite slow
But at last she ventured forth
Through the garden gate
She saw the flowers and fountains there
And lingered til quite late
Her little feet were growing tired
so unused to walk
so she rested with the Squire
to have a little talk
Ah! then the princess saw a snail
Beneath the scented trees
Her face became quite pale indeed
She fell upon her knees
‘What is that?’ she asked the Squire
‘that spirals round such flesh.
Do the people eat these things
And do they eat them fresh?”
The snail looked up in total shock
”Surely you aren’t FRENCH!?” he said
Curling tight within his shell
and fearing he’d be dead
”Oh, he spoke!” the Princess cried
The Squire looked away, unsure what to say
The Princess took the Snail straight home
And kissed him every day
The moral of this story is
‘A chance remark and innocence
Can make us fall for anyone
And lovers have no sense.’
The Dreaming Path 