the grass my father cut that day
was parched and scorched
by burning sun
his ashes rest
beneath the roses now
the rain pours down
and bounces on the lawn
bending down the peony heads
and flattening the fern
the grass has grown again
will he?
death
The Old Man
Four cottages stood in a silent row
out on the windswept lonely moor.
People came and people went
but no one came to the old mans door.
The old mans home stood empty now
autumn leaves littered the floor
a smell of must hung in the air,
winters damp and lack of care.
Seeking a home I entered in
Knowing nothing at all of him.
Like an intruder i climbed the stair
to a room, quiet, stark and bare.
An empty bed, the covers pulled back
an empty chair, a water glass
half full, a film of tired dust.
A hollow, a dip at the pillows heart,
round imprint of a sleeping head,
all that is left of the old man, dead.
He lay alone for two long weeks
abandoned in his silent bed
The Minstrel
Peering through a mist
parting a veil, dusty webs,
staring back at fate.
I see the entrance vividly,
the exit all too clear
He rode into London in a cavalcade
his lady seated before him, bedazzled by all they saw
exchanging glances with his boisterous brothers
they rode in a merry troupe, loud laughter and youth
lute and tabor, bells and fine embroidery.
They roamed the streets at night
joyful pups in a rainbow of rags and finery
mocking wealth they cocked a snoop at death.
They attracted wide attention.
red ribbons and green
her hair swings in the sunlight
her eyes, her arms, life
Ah! but to stay in the streets and courtyards would have been far wiser.
What does youth know, exuberant, thoughtless, unwitting.
Attention a flattery, alluring.
Beckoned through wider and higher doors
they entered in. Gardens of delight, sweet scents and song
gentle harmless beauty, so it seemed to him.
A peace fell upon him there, he dreamed in poetry.
Darkness approached. The shadow of a cloud on the grass as it crosses that summers sun.
lavender lady
seats herself amongst roses
charming, so disarming
Requests made, favours granted ,
twisted meanings, things not understood,
so many whispers in quiet corridors,
the web of intrigue draws tighter,
he spoke the wrong words too lightly
spilling his thoughts into treacherous ears.
This tale reveals all that was feared.
The shadow of the Tower looms closer.
He longs to leave this city, they will flee at night,
run to the countryside
where the hills are wide and sweeping,
where the willows lean gently
over the Avon weeping.
All too late.
He prays she got away.
dark walls draw inward
music screams loud in the silence
of la oubliette
this is not his final end, the world is too unkind
better to be forgotten than to suffer such a fate
still unsatisfied they dragged him out
it turns and troubles my stomach now
to watch the rest of this
the pain became too great and ceased, he rose
floating high above himself, looking down on horror
seeing things no-one should see
and my pen grows silent, as he fades away in light
red roses spread out
he flies above the woodlands
butterflies of light
Good Evening
Good evening
The day of death comes when it comes
that’s the sum and the wonder of it,
it teaches us how we should live.
If I find the wait for departure
too gruelling, or late,
I won’t stand about on that grey platform
in the cold, without a companion,
huddled up in a worn out old coat,
my collar turned up and shivering.
So tiresome!
When all is prepared, right and ready
I will die with delight
on a bright moonlit night,
clear stars filling the sky,
I will hold up my soul
to the moonlight above.
I will tell the world
how much I have loved it,
give thanks, state my intention.
strip off the old coat
and accept the warmth
that comes with the cold
in a garden at night
very old.
The rest will be history
written by others
if written at all
in a never ending story
The Dreaming Path 