The days go round and round,
One dragged hour at a time,
In minute variations of the same,
With no specific aim or destination
And no aid to emptiness in passing.
The gradual fading grey of shallow light
Towards a long and lonely night
May lead to near-forgotten dawns
Of frosted daisies growing in damp grass,
Where the hawk cries out in grief above the meadow
And life is full of streams and running horses.
What a sight!
What delight!
How willingly I’d follow.
Damn the clocks.
Damn the wishing.
Damn the dark tomorrow.
Damn the hollow call that draws the heart to sorrow.
dust
A Poets Gift (written when I was told to advertise)
I offer air and dust
a gift not lightly given
sealed tight inside a beating heart
and gathered by my eyes
dust is dust of mother earth
the ground you stand upon
with the very air you breathe
that bears an angels wings
disguised against the sky
this gift I bring
has never cost me anything
but a wandering mind
that haunts my nightly dreams
to find sweet beauty in the dark
and plays at hide and seek
through real, unreal and in-between
to find a spark divine
the words are never mine
they’ve all been used before
that’s how a poet lives
our store is hand to mouth
like beggars on the street
whose worth comes with no price
we search to find our sight
the work is not complete
Clearing House
Wisteria and heliotrope tap upon the window
Cascading canopies of blooms obscure the lace of light
These antediluvian drifting dreams needs a careful cleansing
Wander though the rooms
Trail a finger here along the shelves
Leaving lines behind, each one holds a story
The old clock with a muffled tick marks time,
A perpetual metronome to music echoed in the hall.
Polished, worn piano keys, lid closed now and silent.
Take a yellow dust cloth, wipe it all away
Open wide resistant, creaking window frames
Shake the dust out, flying to the stratosphere.
Life is not for fragile vases, balanced near the fire.
Crematorium dust belongs beneath the roses
Sheltered in rich earth.
At the kitchen sink, elbow deep in suds,
I recall a rubaiyat, I sense reverberation
Somewhere in my memory, a penetrating message, from Arcadia.
Fragile Dust (a tritina)
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
The China Doll
the china doll stands on a shelf in the corner
kept behind glass, protected from dust
her painted face stares out with blank eyes
her fine silks faded by sunlight and years
she was bought to this house by a sailor
a gift from a far away port, long ago
picked up when he thought of his woman
waiting for him with patience back home
the china doll was a token a love
kept for years in a kit bag in war
she is a survivor of many sea battles
with never a mark on her beautiful face
but he went away and never came back
the china doll is all that is left
she has been easy enough to preserve
his life was as fragile as the china doll looks
the china doll stands on a shelf in the corner
while all around her life comes and goes
she is changed now from token to heirloom
her origins forgotten, no longer known
Beyond the Loss
from high above looking down on the land
there are signs of all that is gone
churches sit on old sacred sites
scattered across the earth
the motorway swallowed the village pond
the sea eats away at the shore
the old forests all gone to ships
gone to ashes and war
i see the ramparts of Rome
Legions lost in the earth
Saxon barrows and Norman walls
Celtic graves, the breaking of stones,
gone, in a battle for power
all for nothing
the land and the word lives on
the rhyme, the history, the song
deeper than dust
deeper than bone
finer, truer, strong
Shadow Dancing
shadows dancing on the wall in firelight
music heard far off, the shade behind the waterfall,
a leaf turning in light, falling, landing rots to dust
the echo of a voice across a valley far away, sun sinking,
frost that silvers the hilltops, the cocks crow at dawn,
a sense that all is born to die, overpowered, as it must
light reflected in a lake, rainbows over cornfields,
swallows gliding on the high still air, above the wood,
the dark smell of mud, these are things i trust
bring what life gives or go as it will
night into day, day into night,
underneath all this one dazzling beauty,
shining bright,
burning light,
conquering fruitless fear
Late Fairytale
a loom stands in the corner
the work left incomplete
slippers beside the fire, grown cold
missing the warmth of her feet
this place is full of cobwebs and dust
a broom leans by the wall, forgotten
an emerald bowl holds trinkets, jumbled
does anyone live here at all?
the garden is wild and overgrown
the birds, left unfed, have all flown away
the pool by the fountain is empty and dry
where children used to play
the faeries who hid away in the rain
will return with the nightingale
The Dreaming Path 